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GIFT   OF 
Harry  East   Miller 


SONS  AND  FATHERS. 


SONS  AND  FATHERS 


BY 


HARRY  STILLWELL  EDWARDS. 


CHICAGO    AND    NEW    YORK  : 

RAND,  McNALLY  &  COMPANY, 

MDCCCXCVT. 


A    PRIZE    STORY 

In  THE   CHICAGO   RECORD'S   series  of  "Stories  of  Mystery. 

SONS    AND    FATHERS 


L  /EDWARDS 

AUTHOR  OF  "Two  RUNAWAYS,"  "MINC,"  "SISTER  TODHUNTER'S 

HEART,"  UDE  VALLEY  AN'  DE  SHADDER,"  "OLE 

Miss  AN'  SWEETHEART,"  ETC. 

(This  story  —  out  of  8 16  competing  — was  awarded  the  FIRST  PRIZE  — 

$10,000  — in  THE  CHICAGO  RECORD'S  "  $30,000 

to  Authors"  competition.) 

• 

GIFT  OF 


Copyright,  1896,  by  Harry  Stillwell  Edwards. 


SONS  AND  FATHERS 


CHAPTER  i.{  1  ^v  :    r::r-  :;?  > 

TWO    SONS. 

At  a  little  station  in  one  of  the  gulf  states,  where  the 
east  and  west  trains  leave  and  pick  up  a  few  passengers 
daily,  there  met  in  the  summer  of  1888  two  men  who  since 
they  are  to  appear  frequently  in  this  record,  are  worthy 
of  description.  One  who  alighted  from  the  west-bound 
train  was  about  29  years  of  age.  Tall  and  slender,  he 
wore  the  usual  four-button  cutaway  coat,  with  vest  and 
trousers  to  match,  which,  despite  its  inappropriateness 
in  such  a  climate,  was  the  dress  of  the  young  city  man 
of  the  south,  in  obedience  to  the  fashion  set  by  the  north 
ern  metropolis.  His  small  feet  were  incased  in  neat  half- 
moroccos,  and  his  head  protected  by  the  regulation 
derby  of  that  year.  There  was  an  inch  of  white  cuffs 
visible  upon  his  wrists,  held  with  silver  link  buttons,  and 
an  inch  and  a  half  of  standing  collar,  points  turned  down. 
He  carried  a  small  traveling  bag  of  alligator  skin  swung 
lightly  over  his  left  shoulder,  after  the  English  style,  and 
a  silk  umbrella  in  lieu  of  a  cane. 

This  man  paced  the  platform  patiently. 

His  neighbor  was  about  the  same  age,  dressed  in  a 
plain  gray  cassimere  suit.  He  wore  a  soft  felt  traveling 
hat  and  the  regulation  linen.  He  was,  however,  of  heav 
ier  build,  derived  apparently  from  free  living,  and  rest 
less,  since  he  moved  rapidly  from  point  to  point,  speaking 


M8190 


6  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

with  train  hands  and  others,  his  easy,  good-fellow  air 
invariably  securing  him  courtesy.  His  face  was  full  and 
a  trifle  florid,  but  very  mobile  in  expression;  while  that 
of  the  first  mentioned  was  somewhat  sallow  and  softened 
almost  to  sadness  by  gray  eyes  and  long  lashes.  As 
they  passed  each  other  the  difference  was  both  noticed 
and  felt.  The  impressions  that  the  two  would  have  con 
veyed  to  an  analyst  were  action  and  reflection.  Perhaps 
in  the  case  of  the  man  in  gray  the  impression  would  have 
been  heightened  by  sight  of  his  two  great  commercial 
traveling  bags  of  Russia  leather,  bearing  the  initials  "N. 
{M.,  Jr.v ; 

There  was  one  other  passenger  on  the  platform — a 
ye^y.fendsome  young  woman,  seated  on  her  trunk  and 
trying  to'  interest  herself  in  a  pamphlet  spread  upon  her 
lap,  but  from  time  to  time  she  lifted  her  face,  and  when 
the  eyes  of  the  man  glanced  her  way  she  lowered  hers 
with  a  half-smile  on  her  lips.  There  was  something  in 
the  man's  tone  and  manner  that  disarmed  reserve. 

An  officer  in  uniform  came  from  the  little  eating-house 
near  by  and  approached  the  party. 

"Are  there  any  passengers  for  the  coast  here?"  he 
asked. 

"I  am  going  to  Charleston,"  the  young  lady  said. 

"Where  are  you  from,  miss?"  Then,  seeing  her  sur 
prise,  he  continued:  "You  must  excuse  the  question, 
but  I  am  a  quarantine  officer  and  Charleston  has  quar 
antined  against  all  points  that  have  been  exposed  to 
yellow  fever." 

"That,  then,  does  not  include  me,"  she  said,  con 
fidently.  "I  am  from  Montgomery,  where  there  is  no 
yellow  fever,  and  a  strict  quarantine." 

"Have  you  a  health  certificate?" 

"A  what?" 

"A  ticket  from  any  of  the  authorities  or  physicians  in 
Montgomery?" 

"No,  sir;  I  am  Miss  Kitty  Blair,  and  going  to  visit 
friends  in  Charleston." 

The  officer  looked  embarrassed.  The  health-certificate 
regulation  and  inland  quarantine  were  new  and  forced 
him  frequently  into  unpleasant  positions. 


TWO  SONS.  7 

"You  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  finally;  "but  have  you 
anything  that  could  establish  that  fact,  visiting  cards,  cor 
respondence — " 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  replied,  flushing  a  little,  "who 
I  am  and  where  I  am  from." 

"That  would  be  sufficient,  miss,  if  all  that  is  needed  is 
a  lady's  word,  but  I  am  compelled  to  keep  all  persons 
from  the  east-bound  train  who  cannot  prove  their  resi 
dence  in  a  non-infected  district.  The  law  is  impartial." 

"And  I  cannot  go  on,  then?"  There  were  anxiety  and 
pathos  in  her  eyes  and  tones.  The  gentleman  in  gray 
approached. 

"I  can  fix  that,  sir,"  he  said,  briskly  addressing  the 
officer.  "I  am  not  personally  acquainted  with  Miss  Blair, 
but  I  can  testify  to  what  she  says  as  true.  I  have  seen 
her  there  almost  daily.  My  name  is  Montjoy — Norton 
Montjoy,  Jr.  Here  are  my  letters  and  my  baggage  is 
over  yonder." 

"Are  you  a  son  of  Col.  Norton  Montjoy  of  Georgia, 
colonel  of  the  old  'fire-eaters,'  as  we  used  to  call  the 
regiment?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  and  a  happy  smile  illumined  his  face. 

"My  name  is  Throckmorton,"  said  the  officer.  "I  fol 
lowed  your  father  three  years  during  the  war,  and  you 
are — by  Jove!  you  are  the  brat  that  they  once  brought 
to  camp  and  introduced  as  the  latest  infantry  recruit! 
Well,  I  see  the  likeness  now." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  fervently.  The  officer 
bowed  to  the  lady.  "The  matter  is  all  right,"  he  said, 
smiling:  "I  will  give  you  a  paper  presently  that  will  carry 
you  through."  The  new  friends  then  walked  aside  talk 
ing  with  animation.  The  quarantine  officer  soon  got 
into  war  anecdotes.  The  other  stranger  was  now  left 
to  the  amusement  of  watching  the  varying  expressions 
of  the  girl's  face.  She  continued  to  gaze  after  her  timely 
rescuer  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  she  bent  low  over 
her  book  and  began  to  laugh.  Presently,  with  a  supreme 
effort  ^she  recovered  herself.  Montjoy  had  shaken  off  his 
father's  admirer  and  was  coming  her  way.  She  looked 
up  shyly.  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  getting 
me  out  of  trouble;  I " 


8  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"Don't  mention  it,  miss;  these  fellows  have  not  much 
sense." 

"But  what  a  fib  it  was!" 

"How?" 

"I  haven't  been  in  Montgomery  in  two  weeks.  I  came 
here  from  an  aunt's  in  Macon." 

"And  I  haven't  been  there  in  six  months!  But  what  an 
innocent  the  dear  fellow  is!"  His  laugh  was  hearty  and 
infectious.  "Here  comes  your  train;  let  me  put  you 
aboard."  He  secured  her  a  seat;  the  repentant  quaran 
tine  officer  supplied  her  with  a  ticket,  and  then,  shaking 
hands  again  with  his  father's  friend,  Montjoy  hurried 
to  the  southwester,  which  was  threatening  to  get  under 
way.  The  other  traveler  was  in  and  had  a  window  open 
on  the  shady  side. 

There  were  men  only  in  the  car,  and  as  Montjoy  en 
tered  he  drew  off  his  coat  and  dropped  it  upon  his  bags. 
The  motion  of  the  starting  train  did  not  add  to  his  com 
fort.  The  red  dust  poured  in  through  the  open  windows, 
invading  and  irritating  the  lungs.  He  thought  of  the 
moonlit  roof  gardens  in  New  York  with  something  like 
a  groan. 

"Confound  such  a  road!"  and  down  went  the  book 
he  was  seriously  trying  to  lose  himself  in.  His  silent 
companion's  face  was  lifted  toward  him;  he  stopped  and 
continued  his  speech: 

"A  railroad  company  that  will  run  cars  like  this  on 
such  a  schedule  ought  to  be  abolished,  the  officers 
imprisoned,  track  torn  up  and  rolling  stock  burned! 
But  then,"  he  continued,  "I  am  the  fool.  I  ought  not 
to  have  come  by  this  God-forsaken  route." 

"It  is  certainly  not  pleasant  traveling  to-day,"  his  com 
panion  remarked,  sympathetically,  showing  even,  white 
teeth  under  his  brown  mustache.  Montjoy  had  returned 
to  his  seat,  but  the  smooth,  even,  musical  tones  of  the 
other  clung  to  him.  He  glanced  back  and  presently  came 
and  took  a  seat  near  by. 

"Are  you  a  resident  of  the  south?"  It  was  the  stranger 
who  spoke  first.  This  delicate  courtesy  was  not  lost  on 
Montjoy. 

"Yes.     That  is,  I  count  myself  a  citizen  of  this  state. 


THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  THRESHOLD.  9 

But  I  sell  clothing  for  a  New  York  house  and  am  away 
from  home  a  great  deal." 

"You  delivered  the  young  lady  at  the  junction  from 
quite  a  predicament." 

"Didn't  I,  though !  Well,  she  is  evidently  a  fine  little 
woman  and  pretty.  Lies  for  a  pretty  woman  don't  count. 
By  the  way — may  I  ask?  What  line  of  business  are  you 
in?" 


CHAPTER   II. 
THE    STRANGER   ON    THE    THRESHOLD. 

"I  am  not  in  business,"  said  the  other.  "I  am  a  nephew 
of  John  Morgan,  of  your  city.  I  suppose  you  must  have 
known  him." 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"And  am  going  out  to  wind  up  his  affairs.  I  have  been 
abroad  and  have  only  just  returned.  The  news  of  his 
death  was  quite  a  surprise  to  me.  I  had  not  been  in 
formed  that  he  was  ill." 

"Then  you  are  the  heir  of  John  Morgan?" 

"I  am  told  so.  It  is  but  three  days  now  since  I  reached 
this  country,  and  I  have  no  information  except  as  con 
tained  in  a  brief  notice  from  attorneys." 

"How  long  since  you  have  seen  him?" 

"I  have  never  seen  him — at  least  not  since  I  was  an 
infant,  if  then.  My  parents  left  me  to  his  care.  I  have 
spent  my  life  in  schools  until  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
when,  after  graduating  at  Harvard  and  then  at  Columbia 
college  in  law,  I  went  abroad.  I  have  never  seen  so 
much  as  the  picture  of  my  uncle.  I  applied  to  him  for  one 
through  his  New  York  lawyer  once,  sending  a  new  one 
of  myself,  and  he  replied  that  he  had  too  much  respect 
for  art  to  have  his  taken." 

"That  sounds  like  him,"  and  Montjoy  laughed  heartily. 
"He  was  a  florid,  sandy-haired  man,  with  eyes  always 
half-closed  against  the  light,  stout  and  walked  somewhat 
heavily.  He  has  been  a  famous  criminal  lawyer,  but  for 


10  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

many  years  has  not  seemed  to  care  for  practice.  He  was 
a  heavy  drinker,  but  not  a  drunkard;  the  most  eccentric 
man  I  ever  met,  but  with  all  that  you  would  rely  implic 
itly  upon  what  he  said.  He  left  a  large  property,  I  pre 
sume?" 

"So  I  infer."  Edward  looked  out  of  the  window,  but 
presently  resumed  the  conversation. 

"My  uncle  stood  well  in  the  community,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh,  yes;  we  have  lost  a  good  citizen.  Do  you  expect 
to  make  your  home  with  us?" 

"That  depends  upon  circumstances.  Very  likely  I 
shall." 

"I  see !  Well,  sir,  I  trust  you  will.  The  Morgan  place 
is  a  nice  one  and  has  been  closed  to  the  young  people 
too  long." 

"I  am  afraid  they  will  not  find  me  very  gay."  A 
shadow  flitted  over  his  face,  blotting  out  the  faint  smile. 

The  towns  and  villages  glided  away. 

Edward  Morgan  noticed  that  there  was  little  paint 
upon  the  country  houses,  and  that  the  fences  were  gone 
from  most  neighborhoods.  And  then  the  sun  sank 
below  the  black  cloud,  painting  its  peaks  with  gold,  and 
filling  the  caverns  with  yellow  light;  church  spires,  tall 
buildings  and  electric-light  towers  filed  by  with  solemn 
dignity  and  then  stood  motionless.  The  journey  was  at 
an  end. 

"My  home  is  six  miles  out,"  said  Montjoy,  "and  if  you 
will  go  with  me  I  will  be  glad  to  have  you.  It  is  quite  a 
ride,  but  anything  is  preferable  to  the  hotels." 

Morgan's  face  lighted  up  quickly  at  this  unexpected 
courtesy. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said;  "but  I  don't  mind  the  hotels. 
I  have  never  had  any  other  home,  sir,  except  boarding 
houses."  Through  his  smile  there  fell  the  little,  destroy 
ing  shadow.  Montjoy  had  not  expected  him  to  accept, 
but  he  turned  now,  with  his  winning  manner. 

''Well,  then,  I  insist.  We  will  find  a  wagon  waiting 
outside,  and  to-morrow  I  am  coming  in  and  will  bring 
you  back.  Don't  say  a  word,  my  dear  fellow,  but  come 
along.  We  will  have  to  get  acquainted  some  of  these 
days,  and  there  is  nothing  like  making  an  early  start." 


THE   STRANGER   ON   THE   THRESHOLD.  11 

He  was  already  heading  for  the  sidewalk;  his  company 
was  as  sunlight  and  Morgan  was  tempted  to  stay  in  the 
sunlight. 

"Then  I  will  go,"  he  said.    "You  are  very  kind." 

A  four-seated  vehicle  stood  outside  and  by  it  a  little 
old  negro,  who  laughed  as  Montjoy  rapidly  approached. 

"Well,  Isam,"  he  said,  tossing  his  bag  in,  "how  are 
all  at  home?" 

"Dey's  all  well." 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Morgan,  we  will  probably  have  to 
leave  your  trunks,  but  I  can  supply  you  with  everything 
for  a  'one-night  stand.'  " 

"I  have  a  valise  that  will  answer  if  there  is  room." 

"Plenty.  Let  Isam  have  the  check  and  he  will  get  it." 
While  Morgan  was  feeling  for  his  bit  of  brass  Isam  con 
tinued: 

"Miss  Annie  will  be  mighty  glad  to  see  you.  Sent 
me  in  here  now  goin'  on  fo'  times  an'  gettin'  madder " 

"That's  all  right;  here's  the  check;  hurry  up."  The 
negro  started  off  rapidly. 

"Drive  by  the  club,  Isam,"  he  said,  when  the  negro  had 
resumed  the  lines.  "I  reckon  we'll  be  too  late  for  supper 
at  home;  better  get  it  in  town." 

"Miss  Mary  save  supper  for  you,  sho',  Marse  Norton." 

"Save  the  mischief!  Go  ahead!"  The  single  horse 
moved  forward  on  a  dignified  trot. 

As  they  entered  the  club  several  young  men  were 
grouped  near  a  center  table.  There  was  a  vista  of  open 
doors,  a  glimmer  of  cards  and  the  crash  of  billiards. 
Montjoy  walked  up  and  dropped  his  hat  on  the  table, 
then  followed  a  general  exclamation  and  handshaking. 
Edward  Morgan  noticed  that  they  greeted  him  with  gen 
eral  cordiality.  Then  he  saw  his  manner  change  and  he 
turned  with  a  show  of  formality. 

"Gentlemen,  this  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Morgan,  a  nephew  of 
Col.  John  Morgan."  He  rapidly  pronounced  the  names 
of  those  present,  and  each  shook  the  newcomer's  hand. 
At  the  same  time  Morgan  felt  their  sudden  scrutiny,  but 
it  was  brief.  Montjoy  rung-  the  bell. 

"What  are  you  going  to  have,  gentlemen?  John,"  to 
the  old  waiter,  "how  are  you,  John?" 


12  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"First  rate,  Marse  Norton;  first  rate."  The  old  man 
bowed  and  smiled,  well  pleased. 

"Take  these  orders,  John.  Five  toddies,  one  Rhine 
wine,  and  hurry,  John!  Oh,  John!"  The  worthy  came 
back.  "There  is  only  one  mistake  you  can  make  with 
mine;  take  care  about  the  water!" 

"All  right,  sah,  all  right.    Dere  won't  be  any." 

Montjoy  ordered  a  tremendous  supper,  as  he  called 
it,  and  while  waiting  the  half-hour  for  its  preparation, 
several  of  the  party  repeated  the  order  for  refreshments, 
it  appeared  to  the  stranger,  with  something  like  anxiety. 
It  was  as  though  they  feared  an  opportunity  to  return 
the  courtesies  they  had  accepted  would  not  be  given. 
None  joined  them  at  supper,  but  when  the  newcomers 
were  seated  one  of  the  gentlemen  lounged  near  and  drop 
ping  into  a  seat  renewed  the  conversation  that  had  been 
interrupted.  Champagne  had  been  added  to  the  supper 
and  this  gentleman  yielded  at  length  to  Montjoy's  de 
mand  and  joined  them. 

The  conversation  ran  upon  local  politics  until  Morgan 
began  to  feel  the  isolation.  He  took  to  studying  the  new- 
man  and  presently  felt  the  slight,  inexplicable  prejudice 
that  he  had  formed  upon  the  introduction  wearing  away. 
The  man  was  tall,  dark  and  straightly  built,  probably 
thirty  years  of  age,  with  fine  eyes  and  unchanging  coun 
tenance.  He  did  but  little  talking,  and  when  he  spoke 
it  was  with  great  deliberation  and  positiveness.  If  there 
were  an  unpleasant  shading  of  character  written  there 
it  was  in  the  mouth,  which,  while  not  ill-formed,  seemed 
to  promise  a  relentless  disposition.  But  the  high  and 
noble  forehead  redeemed  it  all.  This  man  was  now  ad 
dressing  him: 

"You  will  remain  some  time  in  Macon,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

The  voice  possessed  but  few  curves;  it  grated  a  trifle 
upon  the  stranger. 

"I  cannot  tell  as  yet,"  he  said ;  "I  do  not  know  what  will 
be  required  of  me." 

"Well,  I  will  be  pleased  to  see  you  at  my  place  of  busi 
ness  whenever  you  find  an  opportunity  of  calling.  Nor 
ton,  bring  Mr.  Morgan  down  to  see  me." 

He  laid  his  card  by  Edward  and  bade  them  good- 


THE  STRANGER  ON   THE  THRESHOLD.  13 

evening.  Looking  over  his  plate,  the  latter  read  H.  R. 
Barksdale,  president  A.  F.  &  C.  railroad.  He  had  not 
caught  the  name  in  the  general  introduction.  "Good 
fellow,"  said  Montjoy,  between  mouthfuls;  "talked  more 
to-night  than  I  ever  heard  him,  and  never  knew  him 
to  pull  a  card  before." 

The  night  was  dark.  The  road  ran  over  hills,  but 
sometimes  was  sandy  enough  to  reduce  the  horse  to  his 
slowest  gait.  "From  this  point,"  said  Montjoy,  looking 
back,  "you  can  see  the  city  five  miles  away,  rather  a  good 
view  in  the  daytime,  but  now  only  the  scattered  electric 
lights  show  up." 

"It  looks  like  the  south  of  France,"  said  Morgan. 
Montjoy  revealed  the  direction  of  his  thoughts. 

"You  will  find  things  at  home  very  different  from  what 
they  once  were,"  he  put  in.  "With  free  labor  the  planta 
tions  have  run  down,  and  it  is  very  hard  for  the  old  plant 
ers  to  make  anything  out  of  land  now.  The  negroes 
won't  work  and  it  hardly  pays  to  plant  cotton.  I  wish 
often  that  father  could  do  something  else,  but  he  can't 
change  at  his  time  of  life." 

"Could  not  the  young  men  do  better  with  the  planta 
tions?" 

"Young  men!  My  dear  sir,  the  young  men  can't 
afford  to  work  the  plantations;  it  is  as  much  as  they  can 
do  to  make  a  living  in  town — most  of  them." 

"Is  there  room  for  all?" 

"No,  indeed!  They  are  having  a  hard  time  of  it,  I 
reckon,  and  salaries  are  getting  smaller  every  year." 

"I  have  heard,"  said  Morgan,  slowly,  "that  labor  is 
the  wealth  of  a  country.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  they  ex 
pect  to  make  anything  out  of  this,  they  must  labor  in  the 
productive  branches.  Where  does  the  support  for  all 
come  from?" 

"From  the  farms — from  cotton,  mostly." 

"The  negro  is,  then,  after  all,  the  productive  agent." 

Montjoy  thought  a  moment,  then  replied: 

"Yes,  as  a  rule.  Manufacturing  is  increasing  and  there 
is  some  development  in  mining,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
the  negroes  and  the  poor  whites  of  the  country  keep  the 
balance  up.  Somebody  has  got  to  sweat  it  out  between 


14  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

the  plow  handles,  but  you  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar 
that  Mont  joy  is  out.  I  couldn't  make  $100  a  year  on  the 
best  plantation  in  Georgia,  but  I  can  make  $5,000  selling 
clothing." 

The  dignified  horse  had  climbed  his  last  hill  for  the 
night  and  was  just  turning  into  an  avenue,  when  a  dark 
form  came  plunging  out  of  the  shadow  and  collided  with 
him  violently.  Morgan  beheld  a  rider  almost  unhorsed 
and  heard  an  oath.  For  an  instant  only  he  saw  the 
man's  face,  white  and  malignant,  and  then  it  disappeared 
in  the  darkness.  To  Mont  joy's  greeting,  good-naturedly 
hurled  into  the  night,  there  came  no  reply. 

"My  wife's  cousin,"  he  said,  laughing.  "I  am  glad  it 
is  not  my  horse  he  is  riding  to-night." 

They  came  up  in  front  of  a  large  house  with  Corinth 
ian  columns  and  many  lights.  There  was  a  sudden  move 
ment  of  chairs  upon  the  long  veranda  and  then  a  young 
woman  came  slowly  down  to  the  gate  and  lifted  her 
face  to  Montjoy's  kiss.  A  pretty  boy  of  five  climbed 
into  his  arms.  Morgan  stood  silent,  touched  by  the 
scene.  He  started  violently  as  Norton  Montjoy,  remem 
bering  his  presence,  called  his  name.  The  woman  ex 
tended  her  hand. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  accenting  the 
adjective.  Morgan,  sensitive  to  fine  impressions,  did  not 
like  the  voice,  although  the  courtesy  was  perfect. 

They  advanced  to  the  porch.  An  old  gentleman  was 
standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  In  the  light  streaming 
from  the  hallway  Morgan  saw  that  he  was  tall  and  sol 
dierly  and  with  gray  hair  pressed  back  in  great  waves 
from  the  temples.  He  put  one  arm  around  his  son  and 
the  other  around  his  grandson,  but  did  not  remove  his 
eyes  from  the  guest.  While  he  addressed  words  of  wel 
come  and  chiding  to  the  former,  he  was  slowly  extending 
his  right  hand,  seeing  which  the  son  said,  gaily: 

"Mr.  Morgan,  father — a  nephew  of  Col.  John  Morgan." 
The  light  fell  upon  the  half-turned  face  of  the  old  gentle 
man  and  showed  it  lighted  by  a  mild  and  benevolent 
expression  and  a  dawning  smile. 

"Indeed!  Come  in,  Mr.  Morgan,  come  in;  I  am  glad 
to  see  you." 


THE  STRANGER  ON  THE  THRESHOLD.      15 

The  words  were  cordial  and  tone  of  voice  perfect,  but 
to  Edward  there  seemed  a  shading  of  surprise  in  the  pro 
longed  gaze  that  rested  upon  him. 

Norton  had  passed  on  to  the  further  end  of  the  porch, 
where  an  elderly  lady  sat  upright,  prevented  from  rising 
by  a  little  girl  asleep  in  her  lap.  There  were  sounds  of 
repeated  kisses  as  she  embraced  her  overgrown  boy,  and 
then  her  voice: 

"The  Duchess  tried  to  keep  her  eyes  open  for  you, 
but  she  could  not.  Why  are  you  so  late?"  Her  voice 
was  as  the  winds  in  the  pines,  and  the  hand  she  gave  to 
Morgan  a  moment  later  was  as  cool  as  chamois  and  as 
soft. 

A  young  girl  had  come  to  the  doorway.  She  was 
simply  dressed  in  white  and  her  abundant  hair  was  twist 
ed  into  the  Grecian  knot  that  makes  some  women  appear 
more  womanly.  She  put  her  arms  about  the  big  brother 
and  gave  her  little  hand  to  Morgan.  For  a  moment 
their  eyes  met,  and  then,  gently  disengaging  her  hand, 
she  went  to  lean  against  her  father's  chair,  softly  stroking 
his  white  hair,  while  the  conversation  went  round. 

"Mary,"  said  the  older  woman,  presently,  "Mr.  Morgan 
and  Norton  have  had  a  long  ride  and  must  be  hungry." 

"No,"  said  the  latter,  checking  the  girl's  sudden  move 
ment,  "we  have  had  something  to  eat  in  town." 

"You  should  have  waited,  my  son;  it  was  a  needless 
expense,"  said  the  mother,  gently.  "But  I  am  afraid  you 
will  never  practice  economy."  Norton  laughed  and  did 
not  dispute  the  proposition.  The  young  mother  and 
children  disappeared,  and  Norton  gave  a  spirited  account 
of  the  quarantine  incident  without  securing  applause. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  colonel  to  his  guest  presently, 
when  conversation  had  lulled,  "that  you  are  a  nephew  of 
John  Morgan.  I  did  not  know  that  he  had  brothers  or 
sisters " 

"I  am  not  really  a  nephew,"  said  Morgan,  quietly,  "but 
a  distant  relative  and  always  taught  to  regard  him  as 
uncle."  Something  in  his  voice  made  the  young  girl 
lift  her  eyes.  His  figure  in  the  half-light  where  he  sat 
was  immovable.  Against  the  white  column  beyond,  his 
head,  graceful  in  its  outlines,  was  sharply  silhouetted. 


16  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

It  was  bent  slightly  forward;  and  while  they  remained 
upon  the  porch,  ever  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  would 
turn  her  eyes  slowly  and  let  them  rest  upon  the  speaker. 
But  she  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  III. 
A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

The  room  in  which  Edward  Morgan  opened  his  eyes 
next  morning  was  large  and  the  ceiling  low.  The  posts 
of  the  bed  ran  up  to  within  a  foot  of  the  latter  and  sup 
ported  a  canopy.  There  was  no  carpet,  the  curtains 
were  of  chintz  and  the  lambrequins  evidently  home  made. 
The  few  pictures  on  the  wall  were  portraits,  in  frames 
made  of  pine  cones,  with  clusters  of  young  cones  at  the 
corners.  There  were  home-made  brackets,  full  of  swamp 
grasses.  The  bureau  had  two  miniature  Tuscan  columns, 
between  which  was  hung  a  swivel  glass.  All  was  homely 
but  clean  and  suggestive  of  a  woman's  presence.  And 
through  the  open  windows  there  floated  a  delicious 
atmosphere,  fresh,  cool  and  odorous,  with  the  bloom- 
breath  of  tree  and  shrub. 

He  stepped  out  of  bed  and  looked  forth.  For  a  mile 
ran  the  great  fields  of  cotton  and  corn,  with  here  and 
there  a  cabin  and  its  curl  of  smoke.  A  flock  of  pigeons 
were  walking  about  the  barn  doors,  and  a  number  of 
goats  waited  at  the  side  gate,  which  led  into  a  broad 
back  yard.  In  the  distance  he  could  see  negroes  in  the 
fields,  hear  their  songs  and  the  "clank"  of  a  little  grist 
mill  in  the  valley. 

But  sweeping  all  other  sounds  from  mind,  he  heard 
also  another  musical  voice  calling  "Chick!  chick!  chickee, 
chickee!"  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  fowls  hurrying  from 
every  direction  toward  the  back  yard.  He  plunged  his 
head  into  a  basin  of  cool  water,  and  presently  he  was 
dressed. 

The  front  door  was  open,  as  it  had  remained  all  night, 
the  chairs  on  the  porch,  with  here  and  there  books  and 


A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH.  1? 

papers,  when  Edward  Morgan  walked  out.  The  yard 
was  spacious  and  full  of  plants.  Sunflowers  and  poke- 
berries  were  growing  along  the  front  fence,  and  mocking 
birds,  cardinals  and  jays,  their  animosities  suspended, 
were  breakfasting  side  by  side.  His  walk  carried  him 
to  the  side  of  the  house,  and,  looking  across  the  low 
picket  fence,  he  saw  Mary.  Her  sleeves  were  rolled  up 
above  the  elbows  and  her  arms  covered  with  dough  from 
a  great  pan  into  which,  from  time  to  time,  she  thrust  a 
hand.  A  multitude  of  ducks,  chickens  and  turkeys  and 
guineas  scrambled  about  her,  and  a  dozen  white  pigeons 
struggled  for  standing-room  upon  her  shoulders. 

"May  I  come  in?"  he  called. 

"If  you  can  stand  it,  Mr.  Morgan."  There  was  not 
the  slightest  embarrassment;  the  brown  eyes  were  frank 
and  encouraging;  he  placed  his  hands  upon  the  fence 
and  leaped  lightly  over. 

"What  a  family  you  have !"  he  said.  She  smiled,  turn 
ing  her  face  to  him  as  she  scattered  dough  and  gently 
pushed  away  the  troublesome  birds. 

"Many  birds'  mouths  to  fill;  and  they  will  have  to  fill 
some  mouths,  too,  one  of  these  days,  poor  things." 

"That  is  but  fair." 

"I  suppose  so;  but  what  a  mission  in  life — just  to  fill 
somebody's  mouth." 

"The  mission  of  many  poor  men  and  women  I  have 
seen,"  he  said,  gravely,  "is  merely  to  fill  mouths.  And 
sometimes  they  get  so  poor  they  can't  do  that." 

"And  sometimes  chickens  get  the  same  way,"  she 
said,  sagely,  at  which  both  laughed  outright.  Her  face 
resumed  its  placid  expression  almost  instantly.  "It  must 
be  sad  to  be  very  poor;  how  I  wish  they  could  arrange 
for  all  of  the  poor  people  to  come  out  here  and  find 
homes;  there  seems  to  be  so  much  land  wasted." 

"They  would  not  stay  long  anywhere  away  from  the 
city,"  he  said;  "but  do  you  never  sigh  for  city  life?" 

I  prefer  it,"  she  replied,  simply,  "but  we  cannot  afford 
it.  And  there  is  no  one  to  take  care  of  this  place.  It  is 
harder  on  Annie,  brother's  wife.  She  simply  detests  the 
country.  When  I  graduated " 


18  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"You  graduated!"  he  exclaimed,  almost  incredulously. 

She  looked  at  him  surprised. 

"Yes,  I  am  young,  seventeen  this  month,  but  that  is 
not  extraordinary.  Mamma  graduated  at  the  same  age, 
sixteen,  forty  years  ago."  A  servant  approached,  spoon 
in  hand. 

"Want  some  more  lard,  missy."  She  took  her  bunch 
of  keys,  and  selecting  one  that  looked  like  the  bastile 
memento  at  Mount  Vernon,  unlocked  the  smoke-house 
door  and  waited.  "Half  of  that  will  do,  Gincy,"  she 
said,  never  looking  around  as  she  talked  with  Morgan, 
and  the  woman  returned  half. 

"Now,"  she  continued  to  him,  "I  must  go  see  about 
the  milking." 

"I  will  go,  too,  if  you  do  not  object!  This  is  all  new 
and  enjoyable."  They  came  to  where  the  women  were 
at  work.  As  they  stood  looking  on,  a  calf  came  up  and 
stood  by  the  girl's  side,  letting  her  rub  its  sensitive  ears. 
A  little  kid  approached,  too,  and  bleated. 

"Aunt  Mollie,"  Mary  asked,  "has  its  mother  come  up 
yet?" 

"No,  ma'am.    Spec'  somep'n  done  cotch  her!" 

"See  if  he  will  drink  some  cow's  milk — give  me  the 
cup."  She  offered  him  a  little,  and  the  hungry  animal 
drank  eagerly.  "Let  him  stay  in  the  yard  until  he  gets 
large  enough  to  feed  himself."  Then  turning  to  Morgan, 
laughing,  she  said:  "I  expect  you  are  hungry,  too;  I 
wonder  why  papa  does  not  come." 

"Is  he  up?" 

"Oh,  yes;  he  goes  about  early  in  the  morning — there 
he  comes  now!"  The  soldierly  form  of  the  old  man  was 
seen  out  among  the  pines.  "Bring  in  breakfast,  Gincy," 
she  called,  and  presently  several  negroes  sped  across  the 
yard,  carrying  smoking  dishes  into  the  cool  basement 
dining-room.  Then  the  bell  rung. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairway  Morgan  had  an  opportunity 
to  better  see  his  hostess.  The  lady  was  slender  and 
moved  with  deliberation.  Her  gray  hair  was  brushed 
down  over  her  temples,  and  her  faded  face  was  brightened 
by  eyes  that  seemed  to  swim  with  light  and  sympathy. 
The  dress  was  a  black  silk,  old  in  fashion  and  texture, 


A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD   SOUTH.  10 

but  there  was  real  lace  at  the  throat  and  wrists,  and  a 
little  lace  headdress.  She  smiled  upon  the  young  man 
and  gave  him  her  plump  hand  as  he  offered  to  assist  her. 

"I  hope  you  slept  well,"  she  said;  "no  ghosts!  That 
part  of  the  house  you  were  in  is  said  to  be  one  hundred 
years  old,  and  must  be  full  of  memories." 

They  stood  for  grace,  and  then  Mary  took  her  place 
behind  the  coffee  pot  and  served  the  delicious  beverage 
in  thin  cups  of  china.  The  meal  consisted  of  broiled 
chicken,  hot,  light  biscuits,  bread  of  cornmeal,  and  eggs 
that  Morgan  thought  delicious,  corn  cakes,  bacon  and 
fine  butter.  A  little  darky  behind  an  enormous  apron, 
but  barefooted,  stood  by  the  coffee  pot  and  with  a  great 
brush  of  the  gorgeous  peacock  feathers  kept  the  few 
flies  off  the  tiny  caster  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  while 
his  eyes  followed  the  conversation  around.  Presently 
there  was  a  clatter  on  the  stairs  and  the  little  boy  came 
down  and  climbed  into  his  high  chair.  He  was  bare 
footed  and  evidently  ready  for  breakfast,  as  he  took  a 
biscuit  and  bit  it.  The  colonel  looked  severely  at  him. 

"Put  your  biscuit  down,"  he  said,  quietly  but  sternly, 
"and  wait  outside  now  until  the  others  are  through.  You 
came  in  after  grace  and  you  have  not  said  good-morning." 
The  boy's  countenance  clouded  and  he  began  to  pick  at 
his  knife  handle;  the  grandmother  said,  gently: 

"He'll  not  do  it  again,  grandpa,  and  he  is  hungry,  I 
know.  Let  him  off  this  time."  Grandpa  assumed  a  very 
severe  expression  as  he  replied,  promptly: 

"Very  well,  madam ;  let  him  say  grace  and  stay,  under 
those  circumstances."  The  company  waited  on  him,  he 
hesitated,  swelled  up  as  if  about  to  cry  and  said,  earnestly : 
"Gimme  somep'n  to  eat,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  amen." 
Grandma  smiled  benignly,  but  Mary  and  grandpa  were 
convulsed.  Then  other  footfalls  were  heard  on  the  stairs 
outside,  as  if  some  one  were  coming  down  by  placing 
the  same  foot  in  front  each  time.  Presently  in  walked  a 
blue-eyed,  golden-haired,  barefooted  girl  of  three,  who 
went  straight  to  the  colonel  and  held  up  her  arms.  He 
lifted  her  and  pressed  the  little  cheek  to  his. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "here  comes  the  Duchess."    He  gave  her 


20  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

a  plate  next  to  his,  and  taking  her  fork  she  ate  demurely, 
from  time  to  time  watching  Morgan. 

"Papa  ain't  up  yet,"  volunteered  the  boy.  "He  told 
mamma  to  throw  his  clothes  in  the  creek  as  he  wouldn't 
have  any  more  use  for  them — ain't  going  to  get  up  any 
more." 

"Mamma,  does  your  eye  hurt  you?"  said  Mary,  seeing 
the  white  hand  for  the  second  time  raised  to  her  face. 

"A  little.    The  same  old  pain." 

"Mamma,"  she  explained  to  Morgan,  "has  lost  one 
eye  by  neuralgia.  She  still  suffers  dreadfully  at  times 
from  the  same  trouble." 

Presently  the  elder  lady  excused  herself,  the  daughter 
watching  her  anxiously  as  she  slowly  disappeared. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Norton  Montjoy  and  Edward 
Morgan  reached  the  law  office  of  Ellison  Eldridge.  As 
they  entered  Morgan  saw  a  clean-shaven  man  of  frank, 
open  expression.  Norton  spoke: 

"Judge,  this  is  Mr.  Edward  Morgan — you  have  corre 
sponded  with  him."  Morgan  felt  the  sudden  penetrating 
look  of  the  lawyer.  Montjoy  was  already  saying  au  revoir 
and  hastening  out,  waving  off  Edward's  thanks  as  he 
went. 

"Will  see  you  later,"  he  called  back  from  the  stairway, 
"and  don't  forget  your  promise  to  the  old  folks." 

"You  got  my  letter,  Mr.  Morgan.    Please  be  seated." 

"Yes;  three  days  since,  in  New  York,  through  Fuller 
&  Fuller.  You  have,  I  believe,  the  will  of  the  late  John 
Morgan." 

"A  copy  of  it.  The  will  is  already  probated."  He 
went  to  his  safe  and  returned  with  a  document  and  a 
bunch  of  keys.  "Shall  I  read  it  to  you?" 

"If  you  please." 

The  lawyer  read,  after  the  usual  recitation  that  begins 
such  documents,  as  follows:  "Do  create,  name  and  de 
clare  Edward  Morgan  of  the  city  of  New  York  my  lawful 
heir  to  all  property,  real  and  personal,  of  which  I  may  die 
possessed.  And  I  hereby  name  as  executor  of  this  my 

last  will  and  testament,  Ellison  Eldridge  of  state 

aforesaid,  relieving  said  Ellison  Eldridge  of  bond  as  ex 
ecutor  and  giving  him  full  power  to  wind  up  my  estate, 


A  BREATH  FROM  THE  OLD  SOUTH.  21 

pay  all  debts  and  settle  with  the  heir  as  named,  without 
the  order  of  or  returns  to  any  court,  and  for  his  services 
in  this  connection  a  lien  of  $10,000  in  his  favor  is  hereby 
created  upon  said  estate,  to  be  paid  in  full  when  the 
residue  of  property  is  transferred  to  the  said  Edward 
Morgan,"  etc. 

"The  property,  aside  from  Ilexhurst,  his  late  home," 
continued  Judge  Eldridge,  "consists  of  $630,000  in  gov 
ernment  bonds.  These  I  have  in  a  safety-deposit  com 
pany.  I  see  the  amount  surprises  you." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man;  "I  am  surprised  by  the 
amount."  He  gave  himself  up  to  thought  for  a  few 
moments. 

"The  keys,"  said  Eldridge,  "he  gave  me  a  few  days 
before  his  death,  stating  that  they  were  for  you  only, 
and  that  the  desk  in  his  room  at  home,  which  they  fitted, 
contained  no  property." 

"You  knew  Mr.  Morgan  well,  I  presume?"  said  the 
young  man. 

"Yes,  and  no.  I  have  seen  him  frequently  for  a  great 
many  years,  but  no  man  knew  him  intimately.  He  was 
eccentric,  but  a  fine  lawyer  and  a  very  able  man.  One 
day  he  came  in  here  to  execute  this  will  and  left  it  with 
me.  He  never  referred  to  it  again  but  once  and  that  was 
when  he  came  to  bring  your  address  and  photograph." 

"Was  there — anything  marked — or  strange — in  his 
life?" 

"Nothing  beyond  what  I  have  outlined.  He  was  a 
bachelor,  and  beyond  an  occasional  party  to  gentlemen 
in  his  house,  when  he  spared  no  expense,  and  regular 
attendance  upon  the  theater,  he  had  few  amusements. 
He  inherited  some  money;  the  balance  he  accumulated 
in  his  practice  and  by  speculation,  I  suppose.  The 
amount  is  several  times  larger  than  I  suspected.  His 
one  great  vice  was  drink.  He  would  get  on  his  sprees 
two  or  three  times  a  year,  but  always  at  home.  There 
he  would  shut  himself  up  and  drink  until  his  housekeeper 
called  in  the  doctors."  Morgan  waited  in  silence;  there 
was  nothing  else  and  he  rose  abruptly. 

"Judge,  we  will  wind  up  this  matter  in  a  few  days. 
Here  are  your  letters,  and  John  Morgan's  to  me,  and  let- 


22  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

ters  from  Fuller  &  Fuller,  who  have  known  me  for  many 
years  and  have  acted  as  agents  for  both  Col.  Morgan  and 
myself.  If  more  proof  is  desired " 

"These  are  sufficient.  Your  photograph  is  accurate. 
May  I  ask  how  you  are  related  to  Col.  Morgan?" 

"Distantly  only.  The  fact  is  I  am  almost  as  near  alone 
in  the  world  as  he  was.  I  must  have  your  advice  touching 
other  matters.  I  shall  return,  very  likely,  in  the  morn 
ing." 

Upon  the  street  Edward  Morgan  walked  as  in  a  dream. 
Strange  to  say,  the  information  imparted  to  him  had 
been  depressing.  He  called  a  carriage. 

"Take  me  out  to  John  Morgan's,"  he  said,  briefly. 

"De  colonel's  done  dead,  sah!" 

"I  know,  but  the  house  is  still  there,  is  it  not?" 

The  driver  conveyed  the  rebuke  to  his  bony  horse,  in 
the  shape  of  a  sharp  lash,  and  secured  a  reasonably  fair 
gait.  Once  or  twice  he  ventured  observations  upon  the 
character  of  the  deceased. 

"Col.  Morgan's  never  asked  nobody  'how  much'  when 
dey  drive  'im;  he  des  fling  down  half  er  doller  an'  go 
long  'bout  es  business.  Look  to  me,  young  marster,  like 
you  sorter  got  de  Morgan's  eye.  Is  you  kinned  to  'im?" 

"I  employed  you  to  drive,  not  to  talk,"  said  Edward, 
sharply. 

"Dere  now,  dat's  des  what  Col.  Morgan  say!" 

The  negro  gave  vent  to  a  little  pacifying  laugh  and 
was  silent.  The  shadow  on  the  young  man's  face  was 
almost  black  when  he  got  out  of  the  hack  in  front  of  the 
Morgan  house  and  tossed  the  old  negro  a  dollar. 

"Oom-hoo!"  said  that  worthy,  significantly.  "Oom- 
hoo!  What  I  tole  you?" 


THE  MOTHER'S   ROOM.  23 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  MOTHER'S  ROOM. 

The  house  before  which  Morgan  stood  overlooked  the 
city  two  miles  away  and  was  the  center  of  a  vast  estate 
now  run  to  weeds.  It  was  a  fine  example  of  the  old  style 
of  southern  architecture.  The  spacious  roof,  embattled, 
but  unbroken  by  gable  or  tower,  was  supported  in  front 
by  eight  massive  columns  that  were  intended  to  be  Ionic. 
The  space  between  them  and  the  house  constituted  the 
veranda,  and  opening  from  the  center  of  the  house  upon 
this  was  a  great  doorway,  flanked  by  windows.  This 
arrangement  was  repeated  in  the  story  above,  a  balcony 
taking  the  place  of  the  door.  The  veranda  and  columns 
were  reproduced  on  both  sides  of  the  house,  running 
back  to  two  one-story  wings.  The  house  was  of  slight 
elevation  and  entered  in  front  by  six  marble  steps,  flanked 
by  carved  newel  posts  and  curved  rails ;  the  front  grounds 
were  a  hundred  yards  wide  and  fifty  deep,  inclosed  by 
a  heavy  railing  of  iron.  These  details  came  to  him  after 
ward  ;  he  did  not  even  see  at  that  time  the  magnolias  and 
roses  that  grew  in  profusion,  nor  the  once  trim  boxwood 
hedges  and  once  active  fountain.  He  sounded  loudly 
upon  the  front  door  with  the  knocker. 

At  length  a  woman  came  around  the  wing  room  and 
approached  him.  She  was  middle-aged  and  wore  a  col 
ored  turban,  a  white  apron  hiding  her  dress.  The  face 
was  that  of  an  octoroon;  her  figure  tall  and  full  of  dig 
nity.  She  did  not  betray  the  mixed  blood  in  speech  or 
manner,  but  her  form  of  address  proclaimed  her  at  once 
a  servant.  The  voice  was  low  and  musical  as  she  said, 
"Good-morning,  sir,"  and  waited. 

Morgan  studied  her  in  silence  a  moment;  his  steady 
glance  seemed  to  alarm  her,  for  she  drew  back  a  step 
and  placed  her  hand  on  the  rail. 

"I  want  to  see  the  people  who  have  charge  of  this 
house,"  said  the  young  man.  She  now  approached  nearer 
and  looked  anxiously  into  his  face. 

"I  have  the  care  of  it,"  she  answered. 


24  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  am  Edward  Morgan,  the  new 
owner.  Let  me  have  the  keys." 

"Edward  Morgan!"  She  repeated  the  name  uncon 
sciously. 

"Come,  my  good  woman,  what  is  it?  Where  are  the 
keys?"  She  bowed  her  head.  "I  will  get  them  for  you, 
sir."  She  went  to  the  rear  again,  and  presently  the  great 
doors  swung  apart  and  he  entered. 

The  hallway  was  wide  and  opened  through  massive 
folding  doors  into  the  dining-room  in  the  rear,  and  this 
dining-room,  by  means  of  other  folding  doors,  entering 
the  wing-rooms,  could  be  enlarged  into  a  princely  salon. 
The  hall  floor  was  of  marble  and  a  heavy  frieze  and 
centerpiece  decorated  walls  and  ceiling.  A  gilt  chandelier 
hung  from  the  center.  Antique  oak  chairs  flanked  this 
hallway,  which  boasted  also  a  hatrack,  with  looking-glass 
six  feet  wide.  A  semicircular  stairway  led  to  apartments 
above,  guarded  by  a  carved  oak  rail,  a  newel  post  and  a 
knight  in  armor.  A  musty  odor  pervaded  the  place. 

"Open  the  house,"  said  Edward;  "I  must  have  better 
air." 

And  while  this  was  being  done  he  passed  through  the 
rooms  into  which  now  streamed  light  and  fresh  air.  On 
the  right  was  parlor  and  guest  chamber,  the  hangings 
and  carpets  unchanged  in  nearly  half  a  century.  On  the 
left  was  a  more  cheerful  living-room,  with  piano  and 
a  rack  of  yellow  sheet  music,  and  the  library,  with  an 
enormous  collection  of  books.  There  were  also  cane 
furniture,  floor  matting  and  easy-chairs. 

In  all  these  rooms  spacious  effects  were  not  lessened 
by  bric-a-brac  and  collections.  A  few  portraits  and  land 
scapes,  a  candelabra  or  two  of  brass  and  glass,  brass  fire 
dogs,  one  or  two  large  and  exquisitely  painted  vases 
made  up  the  ornamental  features.  The  dining-room 
proper  differed  in  that  its  furnishings  were  newer  and 
more  elaborate.  The  wing-rooms  were  evidently  intend 
ed  for  cards  and  billiards.  Behind  was  the  southern  back 
porch  closed  in  with  large  green  blinds.  Over  all  was 
the  chill  of  isolation  and  disuse. 

Edward  made  his  way  upstairs  among  the  sleeping 
apartments,  full  of  old  and  clumsy  furniture,  the  bedding 


THE  MOTHER'S  ROOM.  25 

having  been  removed.  Two  rooms  only  were  of  interest; 
to  the  right  and  rear  a  small  apartment  connected  with 
the  larger  one  in  front  by  a  door  then  locked.  This  small 
room  seemed  to  have  been  a  boy's.  There  were  bows 
and  arrows,  an  old  muzzle-loading  gun,  a  boat  paddle, 
a  dip  net,  stag  horns,  some  stuffed  birds  and  small  ani 
mals,  the  latter  sadly  dilapidated,  a  few  game  pictures, 
boots,  shoes  and  spurs — even  toys.  A  small  bed  ready  for 
occupancy  stood  in  one  corner  and  in  another  a  little 
desk  with  drop  lid.  On  the  hearth  were  iron  fire  dogs 
and  ashes,  the  latter  holding  fragments  of  charred  paper. 

For  the  first  time  since  entering  the  house  Edward  felt 
a  human  presence;  it  was  a  bright  sunny  room  opening 
to  the  western  breeze  and  the  berries  of  a  friendly  china 
tree  tapped  upon  the  window  as  he  approached  it.  He 
placed  his  hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  door,  leading  for 
ward,  and  tried  to  open  it ;  it  was  locked. 

"That,"  said  the  woman's  low  voice,  "is  Col.  Morgan's 
mother's  room,  sir,  and  nobody  ever  goes  in  there.  No 
one  has  entered  that  room  but  him  since  she  died,  I 
reckon  more  than  forty  years  ago." 

Edward  had  started  violently;  he  turned  to  find  the 
sad,  changeless  face  of  the  octoroon  at  his  side. 

"And  this  room?" 

"There  is  where  he  lived  all  his  life — from  the  time  he 
was  a  boy  until  he  died." 

Edward  took  from  his  pocket  the  bunch  of  keys  and 
applied  the  largest  to  the  lock  of  the  unopened  door;  the 
bolt  turned  easily.  As  he  crossed  the  threshold  a  thrill 
went  through  him ;  he  seemed  to  trespass.  Here  had  the 
boy  grown  up  by  his  mother,  here  had  been  his  retreat 
at  all  times.  When  she  passed  away  it  was  the  one  spot 
that  kept  fresh  the  heart  of  the  great  criminal  lawyer,  who 
fought  the  outside  world  so  fiercely  and  well.  Edward 
had  never  known  a  mother's  room,  but  the  scene  appealed 
to  him,  and  for  the  first  time  he  felt  kinship  with  the  man 
who  preceded  him,  who  was  never  anything  but  a  boy 
here  in  these  two  rooms.  Even  when  he  lay  dead,  back 
there  in  that  simple  bed,  over  which  many  a  night  his 
mother  must  have  leaned  to  press  her  kisses  upon  his 
brow,  he  was  a  boy  grown  old  and  lonely. 


26  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

One  day  she  had  died  in  this  front  room!  What  an 
agony  of  grief  must  have  torn  the  boy  left  behind!  In 
the  dim  light  of  the  room  he  had  opened,  objects  began 
to  appear ;  almost  reverently  Edward  raised  a  window  and 
pushed  open  the  shutters.  Behind  him  stood  ready  for 
occupancy  a  snowy  bed,  with  pillows  and  linen  as  fresh 
seemingly  as  if  placed  there  at  morn.  By  the  bedside 
was  a  pair  of  small  worn  slippers,  a  rocking  chair  stood 
by  the  east  window,  and  by  the  chair  was  a  little  sewing 
stand,  with  a  boy's  jacket  lying  there,  and  threaded  needle 
thrust  into  its  texture.  On  the  little  center  table  was  a 
well-worn  bible  by  a  small  brass  lamp,  and  a  single  paint 
ing  hung  upon  the  wall — that  of  a  little  farmhouse  at  the 
foot  of  a  hill,  with  a  girl  in  frock  and  poke  bonnet  swing 
ing  upon  its  gate. 

There  was  no  carpet  on  the  floor ;  only  two  small  rugs. 
It  had  been  the  home  of  a  girl  simply  raised  and  grown 
to  womanhood,  and  her  simplicity  had  been  repeated  in 
her  boy.  The  great  house  had  been  the  design  of  her 
husband,  but  here  in  these  two  rooms  mother  and  son 
found  the  charm  of  a  bygone  life  delighting  in  those 
"vague  feelings"  which  science  cannot  fathom,  but  which 
simpler  minds  accept  as  the  whisperings  of  heredity. 

One  article  only  remained  unexamined.  It  was  a 
small  picture  in  a  frame  that  rested  upon  the  mantel  and 
in  front  of  which  was  draped  a  velvet  cloth.  Morgan  as 
in  a  dream  drew  aside  the  screen  and  saw  the  face  of  a 
wondrously  beautiful  girl,  whose  eyes  rested  pensively 
upon  him.  A  low  cry  escaped  the  octoroon,  who  had 
noiselessly  followed  him ;  she  was  nodding  her  head  and 
muttering,  all  unconscious  of  his  presence.  When  she 
saw  at  length  his  face  turned  in  wonder  upon  her  she 
glided  noiselessly  from  the  room.  He  replaced  the  cloth, 
closed  the  window  again  and  tiptoed  out,  locking  the 
door  behind  him. 

He  found  the  octoroon  downstairs  upon  the  back  steps. 
She  was  now  calm  and  answered  his  questions  clearly. 
She  had  not  belonged  to  John  Morgan,  she  said,  but 
had  always  been  a  free  woman.  Her  husband  had  been 
free,  too,  but  had  died  early.  She  had  come  to  keep 
house  at  Ilexhurst  many  years  ago,  before  the  war,  and 


THE  MOTHER'S  ROOM.  27 

had  been  there  always  since,  caring  for  everything  while 
Mr.  Morgan  was  in  the  army,  and  afterward,  when  he 
was  away  from  time  to  time.  No,  she  did  not  know  any 
thing  of  the  girl  in  the  picture;  she  had  heard  it  said 
that  he  was  once  to  have  married  a  lady,  but  she  married 
somebody  else  and  that  was  the  end  of  it.  John  Morgan 
had  kept  the  room  as  it  was.  No,  he  was  never  married. 
He  had  no  cousins  or  kinfolks  that  she  had  heard  of 
except  a  sister  who  died,  and  her  two  sons  had  been  killed 
in  battle  or  lost  at  sea  during  the  war.  Neither  of  them 
was  married ;  she  was  certain  of  that.  She  herself  cooked 
and  kept  house,  and  Ben,  a  hired  boy,  attended  to  the 
rest  and  acted  as  butler. 

Edward  was  recalled  to  the  present  by  feeling  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  him.  He  caught  but  one  fleeting  glance  at 
her  face  before  it  was  averted;  it  had  grown  young, 
almost  beautiful,  and  the  eyes  were  moistened  and  tender 
and  sad.  He  turned  away  abruptly. 

"I  will  occupy  an  upper  room  to-night,"  he  said,  "and 
will  send  new  furniture  to-morrow."  His  baggage  had 
come  and  he  went  back  with  the  express  to  the  city.  He 
would  return,  he  said,  after  supper. 

Sometimes  the  mind,  after  a  long  strain  imposed  upon 
it,  relieves  itself  by  a  refusal  to  consider.  So  with  Ed 
ward  Morgan's.  That  night  he  stood  by  his  window  and 
watched  the  lessening  moon  rise  over  the  eastern  hills. 
But  he  seemed  to  stand  by  a  low  picket  fence  beyond 
which  a  girl,  with  bare  arms,  was  feeding  poultry.  He 
felt  again  the  power  of  her  frank,  brown  eyes  as  they 
rested  upon  him,  and  heard  her  voice,  musical  in  the 
morning  air,  as  it  summoned  her  flock  to  breakfast. 

In  New  York,  Paris  and  Italy,  and  here  and  there  in 
other  lands,  were  a  few  who  called  him  friend;  it  would 
be  better  to  wind  up  his  affairs  and  go  to  them.  It  did 
not  seem  possible  that  he  could  endure  this  new  life. 
Already  the  buoyancy  of  youth  was  gone!  His  ties  were 
all  abroad. 

Thoughts  of  Paris  connected  him  with  a  favorite  air. 
He  went  to  his  baggage  and  unpacked  an  old  violin,  and, 
sitting  in  the  window,  he  played  as  a  master  hand  had 
taught  him  and  an  innate  genius  impelled.  It  was  Schu- 


28  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

bert's  serenade,  and  as  he  played  the  room  was  no  longer 
lonely;  sympathy  had  brought  him  friends.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  among  them  came  a  woman  who  laid  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder  and  smiled  on  him.  Her  face  was 
hidden,  but  her  touch  was  there,  living  and  vibrant.  On 
his  cheek  above  the  mellow  instrument  he  felt  his  own 
tears  begin  to  creep  and  then — silence.  But  as  he  stood 
calmer,  looking  down  into  the  night,  a  movement  in  the 
shrubbery  attracted  him  back  to  earth ;  he  called  aloud : 

"Who  is  there?"  A  pause  and  the  tall  figure  of  the 
octoroon  crossed  the  white  walk. 

"Rita,"  was  the  answer.    "The  gate  was  left  open." 


CHAPTER  V. 
THE  STRANGER  IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

Edward  was  up  early  and  abroad  for  exercise.  Despite 
his  gloom  he  had  slept  fairly  well  and  had  awakened  but 
once.  But  that  once!  He  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
memory  of  the  little  picture  and  it  had  served  him  a 
queer  trick.  He  had  simply  found  himself  lying  with 
open  eyes  and  staring  at  the  woman  herself;  it  was  the 
same  face,  but  now  anxious  and  harassed.  He  was  not 
superstitious  and  this  was  clearly  an  illusion;  he  rubbed 
his  eyes  deliberately  and  looked  again.  The  figure  had 
disappeared.  But  the  mind  that  entertains  such  fancies 
needs  something — ozone  and  exercise,  he  thought;  and 
so  he  covered  the  hills  with  his  rapid  pace  and  found  him 
self  an  hour  later  in  the  city  and  with  an  appetite. 

The  day  passed  in  the  arrangement  of  those  minor  re 
quirements  when  large  estates  descend  to  new  owners. 
There  was  an  accounting,  an  examination  of  securities, 
the  passing  of  receipts  and  a  consultation  of  records. 
Judge  Eldridge  gave  him  assistance  everywhere,  but 
there  was  no  time  for  private  and  past  histories.  In  pass 
ing  he  dropped  in  at  Barksdale's  office  and  left  a  card. 

One  of  the  distinctly  marked  features  of  the  day  was 


THE  STRANGER  IN   THE  LIBRARY.  29 

his  meeting  with  a  lawyer,  Amos  Royson  by  name.  This 
man  held  a  druggist's  claim  of  several  hundred  dollars 
against  the  estate  of  John  Morgan  for  articles  purchased 
by  Rita  Morgan,  the  charges  made  upon  verbal  author 
ity  from  the  deceased.  John  Morgan  had  been  absent 
many  months  just  previous  to  his  death  and  the  account 
had  not  been  presented. 

Edward  was  surprised  to  find,  upon  entering  this  office, 
that  the  lawyer  was  the  man  who  had  collided  with 
Montjoy's  horse  the  night  before.  Royson  saluted  him 
coldly  but  politely  and  produced  the  account  already 
sworn  to  and  ready  for  filing.  It  had  been  withheld  at 
Eldridge's  request.  As  Edward  ran  his  eye  over  the  list 
he  saw  that  chemicals  had  been  bought  at  wholesale, 
and  with  them  had  been  sent  one  or  two  expensive  arti 
cles  belonging  to  a  chemical  laboratory.  Just  what  use 
Rita  Morgan  might  have  for  such  things  he  could  not 
imagine.  He  was  about  to  say  that  he  would  inquire 
into  the  account  when  he  saw  that  Royson,  with  a  sar 
donic  smile  upon  his  face,  was  watching  him.  He  had  a 
distinct  impression  that  a  natural  antipathy  to  the  man 
was  stirring  within  him ;  he  was  about  to  pay  the  account 
and  rid  himself  of  the  necessity  of  any  further  dealings 
with  the  man,  when,  angered  by  the  impudent,  irritating 
manner,  he  decided  otherwise. 

"Have  you  ever  shown  this  account  to  Rita  Morgan?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"And  she  pronounced  it  correct,  I  suppose?" 

"She  did  not  examine  it;  she  said  that  you  would  pay 
it  now  that  John  Morgan  is  dead." 

"If  the  account  is  a  just  charge  upon  the  Morgan  estate 
I  certainly  will,"  said  Morgan,  pocketing  the  written  state 
ment. 

"I  think  after  you  examine  i»to  the  matter  it  will  be 
paid,"  said  Royson,  confidently.  Edward  thought  long 
upon  the  man's  manner  and  the  circumstance,  but  could 
make  nothing  out  of  them.  He  would  see  Rita,  and  with 
that  resolution  he  let  the  incident  pass  from  his  mind. 

The  shadows  were  falling  when  he  returned  to  take  his 
first  meal  in  his  new  home.  He  descended  to  the  dining- 
room  to  find  it  lighted  by  the  fifty  or  more  jets  in  the 


30  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

large  gilt  chandeliers.  The  apartment  literally  blazed 
with  light.  The  sensation  under  the  circumstances  was 
agreeable,  and  in  better  spirits  he  took  the  single  seat 
provided.  Here,  as  afterward  ascertained,  had  been  the 
lawyer's  one  point  of  contact  with  the  social  world, 
and  it  was  here  that  he  had  been  accustomed,  at  intervals 
varying  from  weeks  to  years,  to  entertain  his  city  ac 
quaintances. 

The  room  was  not  American  but  continental  from  its 
Louvre  ceiling  of  white  and  gold  to  its  niched  half  life-size 
statuary  and  pictures  of  fishing  and  hunting  scenes  in 
gilded  frames.  But  the  foreign  effects  ended  in  this 
room.  Outside  all  else  was  American. 

Edward  was  silently  served  by  the  butler  and  was 
pleased  to  find  his  dinner  first  class  in  every  respect.  Then 
came  a  box  of  choice  cigars  upon  a  silver  tray. 

Passing  into  the  library,  he  seated  himself  by  the  read 
ing  light  near  the  little  side  table  where  a  leather  chair 
had  been  placed,  and  sought  diversion  in  the  papers ;  but, 
alas,  the  European  finds  but  little  of  home  affairs  in 
American  papers  outside  the  great  cities.  A  speech  in 
one  parliament,  a  regatta,  a  horse  race,  a  German-army 
review,  a  social  sensation — these  were  all. 

He  turned  from  the  papers ;  the  truth  is  the  one  great 
overwhelming  fact  at  that  moment  was  that  he,  a  wan 
derer  all  of  his  life,  without  family  or  parents,  or  knowl 
edge  of  them,  had  suddenly  been  transplanted  among  a 
strange  people  and  made  the  master  of  a  household  and 
a  vast  fortune.  On  this  occasion,  as  ever  since  entering 
the  house,  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  a  suggestion  so 
indefinite  as  to  belong  to  the  region  of  subconsciousness 
that  he  was  an  interloper,  an  inferior,  and  that  jealous, 
unseen  eyes  were  watching  him.  The  room  seeme^V 
haunted  by  an  unutterable  protest.  He  was  not  aware 
then  that  this  is  a  peculiarity  of  all  old  houses. 

Something  like  an  oppression  seized  upon  him  and  he 
was  wondering  if  this  should  continue,  would  it  be  pos 
sible  for  him  to  endure  the  situation  long?  Upstairs  was 
the  little  desk,  the  keys  to  which  he  held,  and  in  it  inform 
ation  that  would  lay  bare  the  secret  of  his  life  and  reveal 
the  mystery  of  years  ago,  which  would  give  him  the  same 


THE   STRANGER  IN  THE  LIBRARY.  31 

chance  for  happiness  that  other  men  have.  All  that  was 
left  now  for  him  to  do  was  to  ascend  the  stairs,  open  the 
desk  and  read.  He  had  put  it  off  until  a  quiet  and  con 
venient  moment,  and  that  time  had  come. 

But  what  was  contained  in  that  desk?  He  remembered 
Hamlet  and  understood  his  doubts  for  the  first  time.  It 
was  the  gravity  of  this  doubt,  the  weight  of  the  revelation 
to  come  that  caused  him  to  smoke  on,  cigar  after  cigar, 
in  silence.  It  flashed  upon  him  that  it  might  be  wiser  to 
take  his  fortune  and  return  to  Europe  as  he  was.  But 
as  he  smoked  his  mind  rejected  its  cowardly  suggestion. 

It  was  at  this  stage  in  his  reverie  that  Edward  Morgan 
received  the  severest  shock  of  his  life.  Without  having 
noticed  any  sound  or  movement,  he  presently  became 
conscious  that  some  one  besides  himself  was  in  the  room, 
and  instantly  almost  his  eyes  rested  on  a  man  standing 
before  the  open  bookcase.  It  was  a  figure,  slender  and 
tall,  clad  in  light,  well-worn  trousers,  and  short  smoking 
jacket.  The  face  turned  from  him  was  lifted  toward  the 
shelves,  and  long  black  hair  fell  in  shining  masses  upon 
his  shoulders.  The  right  hand  extended  upward,  touch 
ing  first  one,  then  another  of  the  volumes  as  it  searched 
along  the  line,  was  white  as  paraffine  and  slender  as  a 
girl's,  and  a  fold  of  linen,  edged  with  lace,  lay  upon  the 
wrists.  All  the  other  details  of  the  figure  were  lost  in 
shadow.  While  thus  Edward  sat,  his  brain  whirling  and 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  strange  figure,  the  visitor  paused 
in  his  search  as  if  in  doubt,  turned  his  profile  and  listened, 
then  faced  about  suddenly  and  the  two  men  gazed  into 
each  other's  eyes. 

Edward  had  gained  his  first  full  view  of  the  visitor's 
face.  Had  it  been  withdrawn  from  him  in  an  instant 
he  could  at  any  time  thereafter  have  reproduced  it  in 
every  line,  so  vividly  was  it  impressed  upon  his  memory. 
It  was  new,  and  yet  strangely,  dimly,  vaguely  familiar! 
It  was  oval,  pale  and  lighted  by  eyes  with  enormously 
distended  pupils.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  not 
mirrors  at  that  moment,  but  scintillating  lights  burning 
within  their  cavities. 

But  the  first  effect,  startling  though  it  was,  passed  away 
immediately;  nothing  could  have  withstood  the  gentle 


32  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

pleading  entreaty  that  lurked  in  all  the  face  lines;  an  ex 
pression  childish  and  girlish.  The  stranger  gazed  for  a 
moment  only  on  the  man  sitting  bolt  upright  now  in  his 
chair,  his  hands  clutching  the  arms,  and  then  went  quick 
ly  forward. 

"You  are  Edward  Morgan?"  he  said,  encouragingly. 
"My  uncle  told  me  you  would  come  some  day."  The 
deep,  indrawn  breath  that  had  made  the  new  master's 
figure  rigid  for  the  moment  escaped  back  slowly  between 
the  parted  lips.  He  was  ashamed  that  he  should  have 
been  so  startled. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  am  Edward  Morgan.  And 
you  are " 

"Gerald  Morgan.  But  I  must  say  good-by  now.  I 
have  a  matter  of  utmost  importance  to  conclude."  He 
smiled  again,  returned  to  the  shelves  and  this  time  with 
out  hesitation  selected  a  volume  and  passed  out  toward 
the  dining-room. 

A  faint  odor  of  burning  material  attracted  Edward's 
attention.  He  looked  for  his  cigar;  it  lay  upon  the 
matting,  in  a  circle  as  large  as  his  hat.  He  must  have  sat 
there  watching  the  door  for  fifteen  minutes  after  the  sin 
gular  visitor  had  passed  through.  He  stamped  out  the 
creeping  circle  of  fire  and  rung  the  bell.  The  octoroon 
entered  and  stood  waiting,  her  eyes  cast  down. 

"A  young  man  came  here  a  few  minutes  since  and 
went  out  through  that  door,"  said  he,  with  difficulty  sup 
pressing  his  excitement;  "who  is  he?" 

She  looked  to  him  astonished. 

"Why,  that  was  Mr.  Gerald,  sir.  Don't  you  know  of 
him?  Mr.  Gerald  Morgan?" 

"Absolutely  nothing!  I  have  never  seen  him  before  nor 
heard  of  him — no  mention  of  him  has  been  made  in  my 
presence."  The  woman  was  clearly  amazed. 

"Is  it  possible!  Your  uncle  never  wrote  you  about 
Gerald  Morgan — the  lawyers  have  never  told  you?" 

"No  one  has  told  me,  I  say;  the  man  is  as  new  to  me 
as  if  he  had  dropped  from  the  clouds." 

She  thought  a  moment.  "He  must  have  left  pa 
pers " 


THE  STRANGER  IN  THE  LIBRARY.  33 


"Oh!"  exclaimed  Edward,  starting  suddenly;  "I 
t  read  the    aers!    I  see!     I  see!" 


have 
not  read  the  papers! 

"You  will  find  it  there,"  she  said,  relieved.  "I  thought 
you  knew  already.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  to  tell  you 
about  him,  sir!  We  have  grown  used  to  not  speaking  of 
him.  He  never  goes  out  anywhere  now."  Edward  was 
puzzled  and  then  an  explanation  flashed  upon  him. 

"He  is  insane!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  no,  sir!  But  he  has  always  been  delicate  —  not 
like  other  children;  and  then  the  medicine  they  gave  him 
when  he  had  the  pains  and  was  a  baby  —  he  has  been 
obliged  to  keep  it  up.  It  is  the  morphine  and  opium, 
sir,  that  has  changed  him."  Edward  nodded  his  head; 
the  explanation  was  sufficient. 

"He  has  lived  here  a  long  time,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  smokes  and  reads  and  paints  and  does 
many  curious  things,  but  he  never  goes  out.  Sometimes 
he  walks  about  the  place,  but  generally  at  night;  and 
once  or  twice  in  the  last  ten  years  he  has  gone  down 
town,  but  it  excites  him  too  much  and  he  is  apt  to  die 
away." 

"Die  away?" 

"Yes,  sir;  the  attacks  come  on  him  at  any  time,  and  so 
we  let  him  live  on  as  he  wants  to  and  no  one  sees  him. 
He  cannot  bear  strangers,  but  he  is  not  insane,  sir.  One 
trouble  is,  he  knows  more  than  his  head  can  hold  —  he 
studies  too  much."  She  said  this  very  tenderly  and  her 
voice  trembled  a  little  as  she  finished  and  turned  her 
face  away.  The  hands  clasped  under  her  apron  could 
be  seen  to  work  nervously. 

"You  have  not  told  me  who  he  is." 

"I  do  not  know,  sir,"  and  then  she  added:  "He  was 
a  baby  when  I  came,  and  I  have  done  my  best  by  him." 
She  did  not  meet  his  eyes.  Her  suffering  and  embarrass 
ment  touched  Edward. 

"I  will  read  the  papers,"  he  said,  gently;  "they  will 
tell  me  all."  Taking  this  as  a  dismissal  the  woman  with 
drew. 


34  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

"WHO   SAYS  THERE   CAN   BE  A   'TOO   LATE'  FOR   THE 
IMMORTAL  MIND?" 

Something  like  fear,  a  superstitious  fear,  arose  in  Ed 
ward's  heart  as  he  turned  down  the  lid  of  the  old-fash 
ioned  desk  in  the  little  room  upstairs  and  saw  the  few 
papers  pigeon-holed  there  with  lawyer-like  precision.  On 
the  top  lay  a  long  envelope  sealed  and  bearing  his  name. 
His  hand  shook  as  he  held  it  and  studied  the  chirography. 
The  moment  was  one  to  which  he  had  looked  forward 
for  a  lifetime  and  should  contain  the  explanation  of  the 
singular  mystery  that  had  environed  him  from  infancy. 

As  he  held  the  letter,  hesitating  over  the  final  act,  his 
life  passed  in  review  as,  it  is  said,  do  the  lives  of  drowning 
persons.  The  thought  that  Edward  Morgan  was  dying 
came  in  that  connection.  The  orphan,  the  lonely  college 
boy,  the  wandering  youth,  the  bohemian  of  a  dozen  con 
tinental  capitals,  the  musician  and  half-way  metaphysicist 
and  theosophist,  the  unformed  man  of  an  unformed  age, 
was  to  die  and  lie  out  of  memory  in  the  past,  and  in  the 
new  sphere,  one  of  quick,  earnest,  feverish  action,  the 
new  man,  was  to  spring  armed,  or  hampered  by — what? 
At  that  moment,  by  a  strange  revulsion,  the  life  that  he 
had  worn  so  hardly,  so  bitterly,  even  its  sadness  seemed 
dear  and  beautiful.  After  all  it  had  been  a  life  of  ease 
and  many  scenes.  It  had  no  responsibilities — now  it 
would  pass!  He  tore  open  the  envelope  impatiently  and 
read  : 

"Edward  Morgan — Sir:  When  this  letter  comes  to 
your  knowledge  you  will  have  been  acquainted  with  the 
fact  that  my  will  has  made  you  heir  to  all  my  property, 
without  legacy  or  restriction.  That  document  was  made 
brief  and  simple,  partly  to  avoid  complications,  and  partly 
to  conceal  facts  with  which  the  public  has  no  reasonable 
interest.  I  now,  assured  of  your  character  in  every  par 
ticular,  desire  that  you  retain  during  the  lifetime  of  Ger 
ald  Morgan  the  residence  which  has  always  been  his 
home,  providing  for  his  wants  and  pleasures  freely  as  I 
have  done  and  leaving  him  undisturbed  in  the  manner 


"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO   LATE'?"       35 

of  his  life.  I  direct,  further,  that  you  extend  the  same 
care  and  kindness  to  Rita  Morgan,  my  housekeeper, 
seeing  that  she  is  not  disturbed  in  her  home  and  the 
manner  of  her  life.  My  object  is  to  guard  the  welfare 
of  the  only  people  intimately  connected  with  me  by  ties 
of  friendship  and  association,  whom  I  have  not  already 
provided  for.  Carrying  out  this  intention,  you  will  as 
soon  as  possible,  after  coming  into  possession,  take  pre 
cautions  looking  to  the  future  of  Gerald  Morgan  and 
Rita  Morgan,  my  housekeeper,  in  the  event  of  your  own 
death;  and  the  plan  to  be  selected  in  this  connection  I 
leave  to  your  own  good  sense  and  judgment,  only  sug 
gesting  as  adviser  for  you  Ellison  Eldridge,  one  of  the 
few  lawyers  living  whose  heart  is  outside  of  his  pocket- 
book,  and  discretion  perfect. 

"John   Morgan." 

That  was  all. 

The  young  man,  dumbfounded,  turned  over  the  single 
sheet  of  paper  that  contained  the  whole  message,  ex 
amined  again  the  envelope,  read  and  reread  the  commu 
nication,  and  finally  laid  it  aside.  Not  one  word  of  ex 
planation  of  his  own  (Edward's)  existence,  no  claim  of 
relationship,  no  message  of  sympathy,  only  the  curt  voice 
of  an  eccentric  old  man  echoing  beyond  the  black  wall 
of  mystery  and  already  sunk  into  eternal  silence.  The 
old  life  no  longer  seemed  dear  or  beautiful.  It  returned 
upon  him  with  the  dull  weight  of  oppression  he  had 
known  so  long.  It  was  a  bitter  ending,  a  crushing,  over 
whelming  disappointment. 

But  Edward  Morgan  had  lost  in  his  training  the  power 
of  giving  way  entirely  to  moods;  he  had  wrestled  with 
them,  but  had  never  surrendered.  Where  another  man, 
sure  of  sympathy,  would  have  fallen  back  upon  it, 
crushed,  he  smiled  at  length  and  lighted  another  cigar. 
His  mind  reverted  to  the  singular  character  whose  last 
expression  lay  upon  the  desk.  His  last  act  had  been  to 
guard  against  the  curious,  and  that  had  included  the 
beneficiary.  He  had  succeeded  in  living  a  mystery,  in 
dying  a  mystery,  and  in  covering  up  his  past  with  a  mys 
tery. 


36  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"It  was  well  done."  Such  was  Edward's  reflection 
spoken  aloud.  He  recalled  the  lines:  "I  now,  assured 
of  your  character  in  every  particular."  Every  word  in 
that  laconic  letter,  as  also  every  word  in  the  few  commu 
nications  made  to  him  in  life  by  this  man,  meant  some 
thing.  What  did  these  mean?  "Assured"  by  whom? 
Who  had  spied  upon  his  actions  and  kept  watch  over 
him  to  such  an  extent  as  would  justify  the  sweeping 
confidences?  But  he  knew  that  the  testator  had  read  him 
right.  A  faint  wave  of  pleasure  flushed  his  cheek  and 
warmed  his  heart  when  he  realized  the  full  significance 
of  this  tribute  to  his  true  character.  He  no  longer  felt 
like  an  intruder. 

And  yet,  "assured"  by  whom?  And  who  was  Gerald 
Morgan?  Not  a  relative  or  he  would  have  said  so;  he 
would  have  said  "my  nephew,  Gerald  Morgan."  The 
same  argument  shut  him  (Edward)  out.  Why  this  sus 
picious  absence  of  relationship  terms? — and  they,  both 
of  them,  Morgans  and  heirs  to  his  wealth? 

Again  he  dragged  the  papers  from  the  desk  and  ran 
them  over.  Manuscripts  all,  they  contained  detached 
accounts  of  widely  separated  people  and  incidents,  and 
moreover  they  were  clearly  briefed.  "A  Dramatic  Trial," 
"The  Storm,"  "A  Midnight  Struggle,"  etc.  They  had 
no  bearing  upon  his  life;  they  were  the  unpublished  lit 
erary  remains  of  John  Morgan. 

Every  paper  lay  exposed ;  the  mine  was  exhausted.  He 
again  read  the  letter  slowly,  idly  lifted  each  paper  and 
returned  all  to  the  desk. 

The  cigar  was  out  again ;  he  tossed  it  from  the  window, 
locked  the  desk  and  passed  into  the  mother's  room.  The 
action  was  without  forethought,  but  his  new  philosophy 
had  taught  him  the  value  of  human  actions  as  index  fin 
gers.  What  cause  then  had  drawn  him  into  that  long- 
deserted  room?  As  he  reflected,  his  eyes  rested  upon 
the  picture  of  the  girl  in  the  little  frame  on  the  mantel. 
He  started  back,  amazed  and  overwhelmed.  It  was  the 
face  that  had  been  turned  to  him  in  the  library — the  face 
of  Gerald  Morgan! 

Edward  was  surprised  to  find  himself  standing  by  the 
open  window  when  he  had  exhausted  the  train  of  thought 


"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO  LATE'?"       37 

that  the  recognition  put  in  motion,  and  counting  his 
heart-beats,  ninety  to  the  minute.  By  that  curious  power 
or  weakness  of  certain  minds  his  thoughts  ran  entirely 
from  the  matter  in  hand  along  the  lines  of  a  lecture 
his  friend  Virdow  at  Jena  had  delivered,  the  theory  of 
which  was  that  organic  heart  disease,  unless  fastened  to 
its  victim  by  inheritance,  is  always  a  mental  result.  If 
a  mere  thought  or  combination  of  thoughts  could  excite, 
a  thought  could  depress.  It  was  plain;  he  would  write 
to  Virdow  confirming  his  theory. 

Then  he  became  conscious  that  the  moon  hung  like 
a  plate  of  silver  in  the  vast  sky  space  of  the  east  and  that 
her  light  was  flashed  back  by  many  little  points  in  the 
city  beneath  him — a  gilt  ball,  a  vane,  a  set  of  window- 
glasses,  and  the  dew-wet  slates  of  a  modern  roof.  One 
white  spot  was  visible  in  the  yard  in  front,  white  and 
pale  as  the  moon  when  the  vapor  has  not  dispersed  but 
set  immovably.  As  he  idly  sought  to  unravel  its  little 
secret,  it  simply  became  a  part  of  the  shadow  and  invis 
ible,  but  he  felt  that  some  one  was  looking  up  at  him;  and 
suddenly  he  saw  the  slender  figure  of  a  man  pass,  cross 
the  gravel  walk  and  vanish  in  the  shrubbery  on  the  left. 

Edward  did  not  cry  out;  he  stood  musing  upon  the 
fact,  and  lo,  there  came  a  glitter  of  rosy  light  along 
the  horizon;  the  moon  had  vanished  overhead,  and  sound 
arose  in  confused  murmurs  from  the  dull  heaps  of  houses 
in  the  valley.  He  saw  again  at  that  moment,  over  the 
eastern  hills,  the  face  of  a  girl  as  she  stood  calling  her 
pets,  and  felt  her  eyes  upon  him. 

When  he  awoke  that  day  he  found  the  sun  far  beyond 
the  zenith  and  lay  revolving  in  his  mind  the  events  of  the 
night;  to  his  surprise  much  of  the  weight  was  gone  and 
in  its  place  an  interest  the  like  of  which  he  had  never 
before  known.  An  object  in  life  had  suddenly  been  de 
veloped  and  instinctively  he  felt  that  the  study  of  this 
new  mystery  would  lead  to  a  knowledge  of  himself  and 
his  past 

The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  again  see  the  stranger 
who  had  invaded  his  library,  and  carry  his  investigation 
as  far  as  this  person  would  permit.  This  in  mind,  he 
dressed  himself  with  care  and  descended  into  the  dining- 


38  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

room.  In  a  few  moments  his  breakfast  was  served.  Upon 
hearing  his  inquiry  for  Rita,  Ben,  the  butler,  retired  and 
presently  the  woman,  grave,  and  after  a  few  words  quiet, 
took  his  place.  Before  speaking  Edward  noticed  her 
closely  again.  About  fifty  years  of  age,  perhaps  less,  she 
stood  as  erect  and  rigid  as  an  Indian,  her  black  hair  with 
out  a  kink.  There  was  an  easy  dignity  in  her  attitude, 
hardly  the  pose  of  a  slave,  or  one  who  had  been.  But 
in  her  face  was  the  sadness  of  personal  suffering,  and  in 
her  voice  a  tone  he  had  noticed  at  first,  an  echo  of  some 
depressing  experience,  it  seemed  to  him. 

Where  was  Gerald's  room?  There!  He  had  not  no 
ticed  the  door;  it  led  out  from  the  dining-room.  It  was 
the  wing  intended  for  billiards,  but  now  the  retreat  of 
her  poor  young  master  and  had  been  all  his  life.  He  did 
not  like  to  be  disturbed,  but  perhaps  the  circumstances 
would  make  a  difference. 

Edward  knocked  on  the  door.  Receiving  no  answer, 
he  opened  it  hesitatingly  and  looked  in.  Then  he  en 
tered.  Gerald  greeted  him  with  an  encouraging  smile 
and  closing  the  door  behind  him,  he  viewed  the  interior 
with  interest.  The  walls  were  hung  with  pictures, 
swords,  guns,  pistols  and  other  weapons,  and  between 
them  on  every  available  spot  were  books,  books,  books 
and  periodicals.  In  the  far  corner  was  a  cabinet  and  by 
it  a  blackboard.  A  broad  center  table  held  writing  ma 
terials  and  manuscripts,  and  upon  a  long  table  by  two 
open  windows  were  bottles  of  many  colors  and  all  the 
queer  paraphernalia  of  a  chemical  laboratory.  Against  the 
opposite  wall  was  a  spacious  divan,  and  seated  upon  it, 
wrapped  in  a  singular-looking  dressing-gown,  a  fez  upon 
his  head  and  smoking  a  chibouk  as  he  read,  was  the 
strange  being  for  whom  Edward  searched. 

"I  was  expecting  you,"  the  young  man  said;  "where 
have  you  been?"  The  naturalness  of  the  words  confused 
the  visitor  for  a  moment.  No  seat  had  been  offered  him, 
but  he  drew  one  near  the  divan. 

"I  suppose  I  may  smoke?"  he  said,  smiling,  ignoring 
the  query,  but  the  intent  look  of  Gerald  caused  him  to 
add:  "I  slept  late;  how  did  you  rest?" 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Gerald,  his  expression  changing, 


"WHO  SAYS  THERE  CAN  BE  A  'TOO  LATE'?"       35 

"strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  have  seen  you  before,  but 

where,  where "  The  long  lashes  dropped  above  the 

eyes;  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  "but  where,  no  man  may 
say." 

"It  hardly  seems  possible,"  said  Edward,  gravely.  "I 
have  never  been  here  before,  and  you,  I  believe,  have 
never  been  absent." 

"So  they  say;  so  they  say.  Mere  old-nurse  talk!  I 
have  been  to  many  places."  Edward  turned  his  head  in 
sadness.  Man  or  woman  the  person  was  crazy.  He 
looked  again;  it  was  the  face  of  the  girl  in  the  picture 
frame,  grown  older,  with  time  and  suffering. 

"It  is  an  odd  room,"  he  said,  presently;  "do  you  sleep 
here?" 

Gerald  nodded  to  the  other  door. 

"Would  you  like  to  see?     Enter." 

To  Edward's  amazement  he  found  himself  in  a  con 
servatory,  a  glass  house  about  forty  by  twenty  feet, 
arranged  for  sliding  curtains  at  sides  and  top.  There 
was  little  to  be  seen  besides  a  small  bed  and  necessary 
furniture.  But  an  easel  stood  near  the  center  and  on  it 
a  canvas  ready  for  painting.  In  a  corner  was  a  large 
portfolio  for  drawings,  closed. 

"I  cannot  sleep  unless  I  see  the  stars,"  said  Gerald,  join 
ing  him.  "And  there  is  an  entrance  to  the  grounds!"  He 
threw  open  a  glass  door,  exposing  an  oleander  avenue. 
"This  is  my  favorite  walk."  The  scene  seemed  to  strike 
him  anew.  He  stood  there  lost  in  thought  a  moment 
and  returned  to  his  divan.  Edward  found  him  absorbed 
in  a  volume.  He  had  studied  him  there  long  and  keenly 
and  reached  a  conclusion  that  would,  he  felt,  be  of  value 
in  his  future  associations  with  this  eccentric  mind ;  it  was 
a  mind  reversed,  living  in  abstract  thought.  Its  visions 
of  real  life  were  only  glimpses.  Therefore,  he  reasoned, 
to  keep  company  with  such  a  mind,  one  must  be  pre 
pared  for  its  eccentricities  and  avoid  discord. 

It  was  a  keen  diagnosis  and  he  acted  upon  it.  He 
went  about  noiselessly  examining  the  furnishings  of  the 
room  without  further  speech.  The  young  man  was  writ 
ing  as  he  passed  him.  Looking  over  his  shoulder,  Ed 
ward  read  a  few  lines  of  what  was  evidently  a  thesis: 


40  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"The  mind  can  therefore  have  no  conscious  memory. 
Memory  being  a  tvinction  of  the  brain  and  physical  struc 
ture,  and  mind  being  endowed  with  a  capacity  for  wan 
dering,  it  follows  that  it  can  bring  back  no  record  of  its 
experience  since  no  memory  function  went  with  it.  It 
may,  indeed,  be  true  that  the  mind  can  itself  be  shaped 
and  biased  anew  by  its  detached  experiences,  but  who 
can  ever  read  its  history  backward?  Unless  somewhere 
arises  a  mind  brilliant  enough  to  find  the  alphabet,  to 
connect  the  mind's  hidden  storehouse  with  consciousness, 
the  mystery  of  mind — life  (that  is,  higher  dream  life) — 
must  remain  forever  unread." 

"It  has  been  found,"  said  Edward,  as  though  Gerald 
had  stated  a  proposition  aloud. 

"How?  Where?"  Gerald  did  not  look  up,  but  merely 
ceased  writing  a  moment 

"Music  is  the  connecting  link.  Music  is  the  language 
of  the  mind.  Vibration  is  the  secret  of  creation  and 
along  its  lines  will  all  secrets  be  revealed."  The  book 
closed  slowly  in  the  reader's  hands,  his  thesis  slipped  to 
the  floor.  He  sat  in  deep  thought.  Then  a  light  gleamed 
in  his  face  and  eyes. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said,  with  agitation,  as  he  arose.  "It 
is  a  great  thought;  a  great  discovery.  I  must  learn 
music."  He  rang  his  bell  violently;  the  door  opened  at 
once  and  Rita  stood  waiting.  "Bring  me  musical  instru 
ments — what?"  He  turned  impatiently  to  Edward.  The 
latter  shook  his  head. 

"Tis  a  lifetime  study,"  he  said,  sadly,  "and  then — fail 
ure.  No  man  has  yet  reached  the  end." 

"I  will  reach  it." 

"It  calls  for  labor  day  and  night — for  talent — for 
teachers." 

"I  will  have  all." 

"It  calls  for  youth,  for  a  mind  young  and  fresh  and 
responsive.  You  are  old  in  mind.  It  is  too  late." 

"Too  late!  Too  late!  Never,  never,  never  too  late. 
Who  says  there  can  be  a  'too  late'  for  the  immortal  mind? 
I  will  begin!  I  will  labor!  I  will  succeed!  If  not  in  this 
life,  then  in  the  next,  or  the  next;  ay,  at  the  foot  of  Bud 
dha,  if  need  be,  I  will  press  to  read  all  to  the  strains  of 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"      41 

music.  Oh,  blind!  Blind!  Blind!"  He  strode  about 
the  room  in  an  ecstasy  of  excitement. 

"Prove  to  me  it  is  too  late  here,"  shrieked  the  unhappy 
being,  "and  I  will  end  this  existence;  will  go  back  a 
thousand  cycles,  if  necessary,  carrying  with  me  the  im 
pression  of  this  truth,  and  begin,  an  infant,  to  lisp  in 
numbers." 

He  had  snatched  a  poniard  from  the  wall  and  was 
gesticulating  frantically.  Edward  was  about  to  speak 
when  he  saw  the  enthusiast's  eyes  lose  their  frenzy  and 
fix  upon  the  woman's.  He  dropped  the  weapon  and 
plunged  face  downward  in  despair  among  the  pillows. 
Like  a  statue  the  woman  stood  gazing  upon  him. 

"My  violin,"  said  Edward.  She  disappeared  noise 
lessly. 


CHAPTER    VII. 
"BACK!    WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?" 

When  Edward  Morgan  went  to  Europe  from  Colum 
bia  college  it  was  in  obedience  to  a  mandate  of  John  Mor 
gan  through  the  New  York  lawyers.  He  went,  began 
there  the  life  of  a  bohemian.  Introduced  by  a 
chance  acquaintance,  he  fell  in  first  with  the  art  circles 
of  Paris,  and,  having  a  fancy  and  decided  talent  for 
painting,  he  betook  himself  seriously  to  study.  But  the 
same  shadow,  the  same  need  of  an  overpowering  motive, 
pursued  him.  With  hope  and  ambition  he  might  have 
become  known  to  fame.  As  it  was,  his  mind  drifted  into 
subtleties  and  the  demon  change  came  again.  He  closed 
his  easel.  Rome,  Athens,  Constantinople,  the  Occident, 
all  knew  him,  gave  him  brief  welcome  and  quick  fare 
wells. 

The  years  were  passing;  as  he  had  gone  from  idleness 
to  art,  from  art  to  history,  and  from  history  to  archaeol 
ogy  by  easy  steps,  so  he  passed  now,  successively  to  relig 
ion,  to  philosophy,  and  to  its  last  broad  exponent,  theo- 
sophy. 


42  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

The  severity  of  this  last  creed  fitted  the  crucifixion  of 
his  spirit.  Its  contemplation  showed  him  vacancies  in 
his  education  and  so  he  went  to  Jena  for  additional  study. 
This  decision  was  reached  mainly  through  the  suggestion 
of  a  chance  acquaintance  named  Abingdon,  who  had 
come  into  his  life  during  his  first  summer  on  the  continent. 
They  met  so  often  that  the  face  of  this  man  had  become 
familiar,  and  one  day,  glad  to  hear  his  native  tongue, 
he  addressed  him  and  was  not  repelled. 

Abingdon  gave  to  Edward  Morgan  his  confidence;  it 
was  not  important;  a  barrister  in  an  English  interior 
town,  he  crossed  the  channel  annually  for  a  ramble  in  the 
by-ways  of  Europe.  It  had  been  his  unbroken  habit  for 
many  years. 

From  this  time  the  two  men  met  often  and  journeyed 
much  together,  the  elder  seeming  to  find  a  pleasure  in 
the  gravity  and  earnestness  of  the  young  man,  and  he  in 
turn  a  relief  in  the  nervous,  jerky  lawyer,  looking  always 
through  small,  half-closed  eyes  and  full  of  keen  concep 
tions.  And  when  apart,  occasionally  he  would  get  a 
characteristic  note  from  Abingdon  and  send  a  letter  in 
reply.  He  had  so  much  spare  time. 

This  man  had  once  surprised  him  with  the  remark: 

"If  I  were  twenty  years  younger  I  would  go  to  Jena 
and  study  vibration.  It  is  the  greatest  force  of  the  uni 
verse.  It  is  the  secret  of  creation."  The  more  Edward 
dwelt  upon  this  remark,  in  connection  with  modern  re 
sults  and  invention,  the  more  he  was  struck  with  it.  Why 
go  to  Jena  to  study  vibrations  was  something  that  he 
could  not  fathom,  nor  in  all  probability  could  Abingdon. 
America  was  really  the  advanced  line  of  discovery,  but 
nevertheless  he  went,  and  with  important  results;  and 
there  in  the  old  town,  finding  the  new  hobby  so  intimately 
connected  with  music,  to  which  he  was  passionately  de 
voted,  he  took  up  with  renewed  energy  his  neglected 
violin.  With  feverish  toil  he  struggled  along  the  border 
land  of  study  and  speculation,  until  he  felt  that  there 
was  nothing  more  possible  for  him — in  Jena. 

In  Jena  his  solitary  friend  had  been  the  eminent  Vir- 
dow  and  to  him  he  became  an  almost  inseparable  com 
panion. 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"      43 

The  confidence  and  speculations  of  Virdow,  extending 
far  beyond  the  limits  of  a  lecture  stand,  carried  Edward 
into  dazzling  fields.  The  intercourse  extended  through 
the  best  part  of  several  years.  On  leaving  Jena  he  was 
armed  with  a  knowledge  of  the  possibilities  of  the  vast 
field  he  had  entered  upon,  with  a  knowledge  of  thorough 
bass  and  harmony,  and  with  a  technique  that  might  have 
made  him  famous  had  he  applied  his  knowledge.  He 
did  not  apply  it! 

His  final  stand  had  been  Paris.  Abingdon  was  there. 
Abingdon  had  discovered  a  genius  and  carried  Edward 
to  see  him.  He  had  been  passing  through  an  obscure 
quarter  when  he  was  attracted  by  the  singular  pathos 
of  a  violin  played  in  a  garret.  To  use  his  expression, 
"the  music  glorified  the  miserable  street."  Everybody 
there  knew  Benoni,  the  blind  violinist.  And  to  this  man, 
awed  and  silent,  came  Edward,  a  listener. 

No  words  can  express  the  meaning  that  lay  in  the 
blind  man's  improvisations;  only  music  could  contain 
them.  And  only  one  man  in  Paris  could  answer!  When 
having  heard  the  heart  language,  the  heart  history  and 
cravings  of  the  player  expressed  in  the  solitude  of  that 
half-lighted  garret,  Edward  took  the  antique  instrument 
and  replied,  the  answer  was  overwhelming.  The  blind 
man  understood;  he  threw  his  arms  about  the  player 
and  embraced  him. 

"Grand!"  he  cried.  "A  master  plays,  but  it  is  incom 
plete;  the  final  note  has  not  come;  the  harmony  died 
where  it  should  have  become  immortal!"  And  Edward 
knew  it. 

From  that  meeting  sprung  a  warm  friendship,  the 
most  complete  that  Morgan  had  ever  known!  It  made 
the  old  man  comfortable,  gained  him  better  quarters  and 
broadened  the  horizon  toward  which  his  sun  of  life  was 
setting.  It  would  go  down  with  some  of  the  colors  of 
its  morning. 

It  became  Edward's  custom  to  take  his  old  friend  to 
hear  the  best  operas  and  concerts,  and  one  night  they 
heard  the  immortal  Gambia  sing.  It  was  a  charity  con 
cert  and  her  first  appearance  in  many  years. 

When  the  idol  of  the  older  Paris  came  to  the  footlights 


44  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

for  the  sixth  time  to  bow  her  thanks  for  the  ovation  given 
her,  she  smiled  and  sung  in  German  a  love  song,  inde 
scribable  in  its  passion  and  tenderness.  It  was  a  burst 
of  melody  from  the  heart  of  some  man,  great  one  moment 
in  his  life  at  least.  Edward  found  himself  standing  when 
the  tumult  ceased.  Benoni  had  sunk  from  his  chair  to 
his  knees  and  was  but  half-conscious.  The  excitement 
had  partially  paralyzed  him.  The  lithe  fingers  of  the  left 
hand  were  dead.  They  would  never  again  rest  upon  the 
strings  of  his  great  violin — the  Cremona  to  which  in  sick 
ness  and  poverty,  although  its  sale  would  have  enriched 
him,  he  clung  with  the  faith  and  instinct  of  the  artist. 

There  came  the  day  when  Edward  was  ready  to  depart 
to  America.  He  went  to  say  good-by,  and  this  is  what 
happened:  The  old  man  held  Edward's  hands  long  in 
silence,  but  his  lips  moved  in  prayer;  then  lifting  the 
instrument,  he  placed  it  in  the  young  man's  arms. 

"Take  it,"  he  said.  "I  may  never  meet  you  again.  It 
is  the  one  thing  that  I  have  been  true  to  all  my  life.  I 
will  not  leave  it  to  the  base  and  heartless."  And  so 
Edward,  to  please  him,  accepted  the  trust.  He  would 
return  some  day;  many  hours  should  the  violin  sing  for 
the  old  man.  As  he  stood  he  drew  the  bow  and  played 
one  strain  of  Gambia's  song  and  the  blind  man  lifted  his 
face  in  sudden  excitement.  As  Edward  paused  he  called 
the  notes  until  it  was  complete.  "Now  again,"  he  said, 
singing: 

"If  thou  couldst  love  me 
As  I  do  love  thee, 
Then  wouldst  thou  come  to  me, 
Come  to  me. 
Never  forsaking  me, 
Never,  oh,  never 
Forsaking  me. 
Oceans  may  roll  between, 
Thine  home  and  thee 
Love,  if  thou  lovest  me 
Lovest  me, 

What  care  we,  you  and  I? 
Through  all  eternity, 
I  love  thee,  darling  one, 
Love  me;  love  me." 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"      45 

"You  have  found  the  secret,"  said  Benoni;  "the  chords 
on  the  lower  octaves  make  the  song." 

And  so  they  had  parted!  The  blind  man  to  wait  for 
the  final  summons;  the  young  man  to  plunge  into  com 
plications  beyond  his  wildest  dreams. 

"A  man,"  said  Virdow  once,  "is  a  tribe  made  up  of 
himself,  his  family  and  his  friends."  And  this  was  the 
history  in  outline  of  the  man  to  whom  Rita  Morgan 
handed  the  violin  that  fateful  day  when  Gerald  lay  face 
down  among  the  pillows  of  his  divan. 

Recognizing  in  the  delicate  and  excitable  organism 
before  him  the  possibilities  of  emotion  and  imagination, 
Edward  prepared  to  play.  Without  hesitation  he  drew 
the  bow  across  the  strings  and  began  a  solemn  prelude 
to  a  choral.  And  as  he  played  he  noticed  the  heaving 
form  before  him  grow  still.  Then  Gerald  lifted  his  face 
and  gazed  past  the  player,  with  an  intensity  of  vision  that 
deepened  until  he  seemed  in  the  grasp  of  some  stupend 
ous  power  or  emotion.  Edward  played  the  recital;  the 
story  of  Calvary,  the  crucifixion  and  the  mourning 
women,  and  the  march  of  soldiers.  Finally  there  came 
the  tumult  of  bursting  storm  and  riven  tombs.  The  cli 
max  of  action  occurred  there;  it  was  to  die  away  into 
a  movement  fitted  to  the  resurrection  and  the  peaceful 
holiness  of  Christ's  meeting  with  Mary.  But  before 
this  latter  movement  began  Gerald  leaped  upon  the  player 
with  the  quickness  and  fury  of  a  tiger  and  by  the  sud 
denness  of  the  onset  nearly  bore  him  to  the  floor.  This 
mad  assault  was  accompanied  by  a  shriek  of  mingled 
fear  and  horror. 

"Back — would  you  murder  her?"  By  a  great  effort 
Edward  freed  himself  and  the  endangered  violin,  and 
forced  the  assailant  to  the  divan.  The  octoroon  was 
kneeling  by  his  side  weeping. 

"Leave  him  to  me,"  she  said.  Stunned  and  inexpres 
sibly  shocked  Edward  withdrew.  The  grasp  on  his 
throat  had  been  like  steel!  The  marks  remained. 

"I  have,"  he  writes  that  night  in  a  letter  to  Virdow, 
"heard  you  more  than  once  express  the  hope  that  you 
would  some  day  be  able  to  visit  America.  Come  now, 


46  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

at  once!  I  have  here  entered  upon  a  new  life  and  need 
your  help.  Further,  I  believe  I  can  help  you." 

After  describing  the  circumstances  already  related, 
the  letter  continued:  "The  susceptibility  of  this  mind  to 
music  I  regard  as  one  of  the  most  startling  experiences 
I  have  ever  known,  and  it  will  afford  you  an  opportunity 
for  testing  your  theories  under  circumstances  you  can 
never  hope  for  again.  Let  me  say  to  you  here  that 
I  am  now  convinced  by  some  intuitive  knowledge  that 
the  assault  upon  me  was  based  upon  a  memory  stirred 
by  the  sound  of  the  violin;  that  vibration  created  anew 
in  that  delicate  mind  some  picture  that  had  been  for 
gotten  and  brought  back  again  painful  emotions  that 
were  ungovernable.  I  cannot  think  but  that  is  to  have 
a  bearing  upon  the  concealed  facts  of  my  life;  the  dis 
covery  of  which  is  my  greatest  object  now,  as  in  the 
past.  And  I  cannot  but  believe  that  your  advice  and 
discretion  will  guide  me  in  the  treatment  and  care  of  this 
poor  being,  perhaps  to  the  extent  of  effecting  a  radical 
change,  and  leave  him  a  happier  and  a  more  rational 
being. 

"Come  to  me,  my  friend,  at  once!  I  am  troubled  and 
perplexed.  And  do  not  be  offended  that  I  have  inclosed 
exchange  for  an  amount  large  enough  to  cover  all  ex 
penses.  I  am  now  rich  beyond  the  comprehension  of 
your  economical  German  mind,  and  surely  I  may  be  al 
lowed,  in  the  interests  of  science,  of  my  ward  and  myself 
to  spend  from  the  abundant  store.  I  look  for  you  early. 
In  the  meantime,  I  will  be  careful  in  my  experiments. 
Come  at  once!  The  mind  has  an  independent  memory 
and  you  can  demonstrate  it." 

Edward  knew  that  there  was  more  in  that  concluding 
sentence  than  in  the  rest  of  the  letter  and  exchange  com 
bined,  and  half-believing  it,  he  stated  it  as  a  prophecy. 
He  was  preparing  to  retire,  when  it  occurred  to  him 
that  the  strange  occupant  of  the  wing-room  might  need 
his  attention.  Something  like  affection  had  sprung  up 
in  his  heart  for  the  unfortunate  being  who,  with  chains 
heavier  than  his  own,  had  missed  the  diversion  of  new 
scenes,  the  broadening,  the  soothing  of  great  land 
scapes  and  boundless  oceans.  A  pity  moved  him 


"BACK!  WOULD  YOU  MURDER  HER?"      47 

to  descend  and  to  knock  at  the  door.  There  was  no 
answer.  He  entered  to  find  the  apartment  deserted,  but 
the  curtain  was  drawn  from  the  doorway  of  the  glass- 
room  and  he  passed  in.  Upon  the  bed  in  the  yellow  light 
of  the  moon  lay  the  slender  figure  of  Gerald,  one  arm 
thrown  around  the  disordered  hair,  the  other  hanging 
listless  from  his  side. 

He  approached  and  bent  above  the  bed.  The  face 
turned  upwrard  there  seemed  like  wax  in  the  oft-broken 
gloom.  The  sleeper  had  not  stirred.  It  was  the  vibra 
tion  of  chords  in  harmony,  then,  that  had  moved  him. 
Would  it  have  power  again?  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
then  returned  quickly  to  the  wing-room  and  secured  his 
instrument.  Concealing  himself  he  waited.  It  was  but 
a  moment. 

The  wind  brought  the  branches  of  the  nearest  oleand 
ers  against  the  frail  walls,  and  the  play  of  lightning  had 
become  continuous.  Then  began  in  earnest  the  tumult 
of  the  vast  sound  waves  as  they  met  in  the  vapory  caverns 
of  the  sky.  The  sleeper  tossed  restlessly  upon  his  bed; 
he  was  stirred  by  a  vague  but  unknown  power ;  yet  some 
thing  was  wanting. 

At  this  moment  Edward  lifted  his  violin  and,  catching 
the  storm  note,  wove  a  solemn  strain  into  the  diapason  of 
the  mighty  organ  of  the  sky.  And  as  he  played,  as  if  by 
one  motion,  the  sleeper  stood  alone  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Again  Edward  saw  that  frenzied  stare  fixed  upon 
vacancy,  but  there  was  no  furious  leap  of  the  agile  limbs ; 
by  a  powerful  effort  the  struggling  mind  seemed  to  throw 
off  a  weight  and  the  sleeper  awoke. 

The  bow  was  now  suspended;  the  music  had  ceased. 
Gerald  rushed  to  his  easel  and,  standing  in  a  sea  of  elec 
tric  flame,  outlined  with  swift  strokes  a  woman's  face 
and  form.  She  was  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  a  man 
and  her  face  was  the  face  of  the  artist  who  worked.  But 
such  expression!  Agony,  horror,  despair! 

The  figure  of  the  man  was  not  complete  from  the  waist 
down;  his  face  was  concealed.  Between  them,  as  they 
contended,  was  a  child's  coffin  in  the  arms  of  the  woman. 
Overhead  were  the  bare  outlines  of  an  arch. 

The  artist  hesitated  and  added  behind  the  group  a 


48  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

tree,  whose  branches  seemed  to  lash  the  ground.  And 
there  memory  failed;  the  crayon  fell  from  his  fingers; 
he  stood  listless  by  the  canvas.  Then  with  a  cry  he 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept. 

As  he  stood  thus,  the  visitor,  awed  but  triumphant, 
glided  through  the  door  and  disappeared  in  the  wing- 
room.  He  knew  that  he  had  touched  a  hidden  chord; 
that  the  picture  on  the  canvas  was  born  under  the  flash 
light  of  memory!  Was  it  brain  or  mind?  Oh,  for  the 
wisdom  of  Virdow! 

Sympathy  moved  him  to  return  again  to  the  glass- 
room.  It  was  empty! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
ON  THE  BACK  TRAIL. 

Edward  found  himself  next  day  feverish  and  mentally 
disturbed;  but  he  felt  new  life  in  the  early  morning  air. 
There  was  a  vehicle  available;  a  roomy  buggy,  after  the 
fashion  of  those  chosen  by  physicians,  with  covered  tops 
to  keep  out  the  sun,  and  rubber  aprons  for  the  rain.  And 
there  was  a  good  reliable  horse,  that  had  traveled  the 
city  road  almost  daily  for  ten  years. 

He  finished  his  meal  and  started  out.  In  the  yard 
he  found  Gerald  pale  and  with  the  distended  pupils  that 
betrayed  his  deadly  habit.  He  was  taking  views  with  a 
camera  and  came  forward  with  breathless  interest. 

"I  am  trying  some  experiments  with  photographs  on 
the  line  of  our  conversation,"  he  said.  "If  the  mind  pic 
tures  can  be  revived  they  must  necessarily  exist.  Do 
they?  The  question  with  me  now  is,  can  any  living  sub 
stance  retain  a  photographic  impression?  You  under 
stand,  it  seems  that  the  brain  can  receive  these  impres 
sions  through  certain  senses,  but  the  brain  is  transient; 
through  a  peculiar  process  of  supply  and  waste  it  is 
always  coming  and  going.  If  it  is  true  that  every  atom 
of  our  physical  bodies  undergoes  a  change  at  least  once 


ON  THE  BACK  TRAIL.  49 

in  seven  years,  how  can  the  impressions  survive?  I  have 
here  upon  my  plate  the  sensitivefied  film  of  a  fish's  eye; 
I  caught  it  this  morning.  I  must  establish,  first,  the 
proposition  that  a  living  substance  can  receive  a  photo 
graphic  image;  if  I  can  make  an  impression  remain  upon 
this  film  I  have  gained  a  little  point — a  little  one.  But 
the  fish  should  be  alive.  There  are  almost  insuperable 
difficulties,  you  understand!  The  time  will  come  when 
a  new  light  will  be  made,  so  powerful,  so  penetrating 
as  to  illumine  solids.  Then,  perhaps,  will  the  brain  be 
seen  at  work  through  the  skull ;  then  may  its  tiny  impres 
sions  even  be  found  and  enlarged;  then  will  the  past 
give  up  its  secrets.  And  the  eye  is  not  the  brain."  He 
looked  away  in  perplexity.  "If  I  only  had  brain  sub 
stance,  brain  substance — a  living  brain!"  He  hurried 
away  and  Edward  resumed  his  journey  to  the  city,  sad 
and  thoughtful. 

"It  was  not  wise,"  he  said,  "it  was  not  wise  to  start 
Gerald  upon  that  line  of  thought.  And  yet  why  not  as 
well  one  fancy  as  another?"  He  had  no  conception  of 
the  power  of  an  idea  in  such  a  mind  as  Gerald's. 

"You  did  not  mention  to  me,"  he  said  an  hour  later, 
sitting  in  Eldridge's  office,  "that  I  would  have  a  ward 
in  charge  out  at  Ilexhurst.  You  naturally  supposed  1 
knew  it,  did  you  not?" 

"And  you  did  not  know  it?"  Eldridge  looked  at  him 
in  unaffected  astonishment. 

"Positively  not  until  the  day  after  I  reached  the  house ! 
I  had  never  heard  of  Gerald  Morgan.  You  can  imagine 
my  surprise,  when  he  walked  in  upon  me  one  night." 

"You  really  astound  me;  but  it  is  just  like  old  Morgan 
— pardon  me  if  I  smile.  Of  all  eccentrics  he  was  the  most 
consistent.  Yes,  you  have  a  charge  and  a  serious  one. 
I  am  probably  the  only  person  in  the  city  who  knows 
something  of  Gerald,  and  my  information  is  extremely 
limited.  With  an  immense  capacity  for  acquiring  infor 
mation,  a  remarkable  memory  and  a  keen  analysis,  the 
young  man  has  never  developed  the  slightest  capacity  for 
business.  He  received  everything,  but  applied  nothing. 
I  was  informed  by  his  uncle,  not  long  since,  that  there 
was  no  science  exact  or  occult  into  which  Gerald  had  not 
4 


50  SONS  AND  FATHERS, 

delved  at  some  time,  but  his  mind  seemed  content  with 
simply  finding  out." 

"Gerald  has  been  a  most  prodigious  reader,  devouring 
everything,"  continued  the  judge,  "ancient  and  modern, 
within  reach,  knows  literature  and  politics  equally  well, 
and  is  master  of  most  languages  to  the  point  of  being 
able  to  read  them.  I  suppose  his  unfortunate  habit — of 
course  you  know  of  that — is  the  obstacle  now.  For  many 
years  now,  I  believe,  the  young  man  has  not  been  off 
the  plantation,  and  only  at  long  intervals  was  he  ever 
absent  from  it.  Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago  he  used  to  be 
seen  occasionally  in  the  city  in  search  of  a  book,  an 
instrument  or  something  his  impatience  could  not  wait 
on." 

"Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago!  You  knew  him  then  before 
he  was  grown?" 

"I  have  known  him  ever  since  his  childhood!"  An 
exclamation  in  spite  of  him  escaped  from  Edward's  lips, 
but  he  did  not  give  Eldridge  time  to  reflect  upon  it. 

"Is  his  existence  generally  known?"  asked  he,  in  some 
confusion. 

"Oh,  well,  the  public  knows  of  his  existence.  He  is 
the  skeleton  in  Morgan's  closet,  that  is  all." 

"And  who  is  he?"  asked  Edward,  looking  the  lawyer 
straight  into  the  eyes. 

"That,"  said  Eldridge,  gravely,  "is  what  I  would  ask 
of  you."  Edward  was  silent.  He  shook  his  head;  it  was 
an  admission  of  ignorance,  confirmed  by  his  next  ques 
tion. 

"Have  you  no  theory,  judge,  to  account  for  his  exist 
ence  under  such  circumstances?" 

"Theory?  Oh,  no!  The  public  and  myself  have  always 
regarded  him  simply  as  a  fact.  His  treatment  by  John 
Morgan  was  one  of  the  few  glimpses  we  got  of  the  old 
man's  rough,  kind  nature.  But  his  own  silence  seemed 
to  beg  silence,  and  no  one  within  my  knowledge  ever 
spoke  with  him  upon  the  subject.  It  would  have  been 
very  difficult,"  he  concluded,  with  a  smile.  "For  he  was 
the  most  unapproachable  man,  in  certain  respects,  that  I 
ever  met." 

"You  knew  him  well?   May  I  ask  if  ever  within  your 


ON   THE   BACK   TRAIL.  51 

knowledge  there  was  any  romance  or  tragedy  in  his 
earlier  life?" 

"I  do  not  know  nor  have  I  ever  heard  of  any  tragedy 
in  the  life  of  your  relative,"  said  the  lawyer,  slowly;  and 
then,  after  a  pause:  "It  is  known  to  men  of  my  age, 
at  least  remembered  by  some,  that  late  in  life,  or  when 
about  forty  years  old,  he  conceived  a  violent  attachment 
for  the  daughter  of  a  planter  in  this  county  and  was,  it 
is  said,  at  one  time  engaged  to  her.  The  match  was  a 
sort  of  family  arrangement  and  the  girl  very  young.  She 
was  finishing  her  education  at  the  north  and  was  to  have 
been  married  upon  her  return;  but  she  never  re 
turned.  She  ran  away  to  Europe  with  one  of  her  teach 
ers.  The  war  came  on  and  with  it  the  blockade.  No  one 
has  ever  heard  of  her  since.  Her  disappearance,  her 
existence,  was  soon  forgotten.  I  remember  her  because 
I,  then  a  young  lawyer,  had  been  called  occasionally  to 
her  father's  house,  where  I  met  and  was  greatly  im 
pressed  by  her.  But  I  am  probably  one  of  the  few  who 
have  carried  in  mind  her  features.  She  was  a  beautiful 
and  lovable  young  woman,  but,  without  a  mother's  train 
ing,  she  had  grown  up  self-willed  and  the  result  was  as 
I  have  told  you."  Edward  had  risen  and  was  walking 
the  floor.  He  paused  before  the  speaker. 

"Judge  Eldridge,"  he  said,  his  voice  a  little  unsteady, 
"I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question,  which  I  trust  you 
will  be  free  to  answer — will  answer,  and  then  forget." 
An  expression  of  uneasiness  dwelt  on  the  lawyer's  face, 
but  he  answered: 

"Ask  it;  if  I  am  free  to  answer,  and  can,  I  will." 

"I  will  ask  it  straight,"  said  Edward,  resolutely:  "Have 
you  ever  suspected  that  Gerald  Morgan  is  the  son  of  the 
young  woman  who  went  away?" 

Eldridge's  reply  was  simply  a  grave  bow.  He  did  not 
look  up. 

"You  do  not  know  that  to  be  a  fact?" 

"I  do  not." 

"What,  then,  is  my  duty?" 

"To  follow  the  directions  left  by  your  relative,"  said 
Eldridge,  promptly. 


52  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

Edward  reflected  a  few  moments  over  the  lawyer's 
answer. 

"I  agree  with  you,  but  time  may  bring  changes.  May 
I  ask  what  is  your  theory  of  this  strange  situation — as 
regards  my  ward?"  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  betray 
the  fact  of  his  own  mystery. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Eldridge,  slowly,  "that  if  your  guess 
is  correct  the  adventure  of  the  lady  was  an  unfortunate 
one,  and  that,  disowned  at  home,  she  made  John  Morgan 
the  guardian  of  her  boy.  She,  more  than  likely,  is  long 
since  dead.  It  would  have  been  entirely  consistent  with 
your  uncle's  character  if,  outraged  in  the  beginning,  he 
was  forgiving  and  chivalrous  in  the  end." 

"But  why  was  the  silence  never  broken?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  was  never  broken.  I  have 
nothing  to  go  upon.  I  believe,  however,  that  it  never 
was.  The  explanations  that  suggest  themselves  to  my 
mind  are,  first,  a  pledge  of  silence  exacted  from  him, 
and  he  would  have  kept  such  a  pledge  under  any  cir 
cumstances.  Second,  a  difficulty  in  proving  the  legiti 
macy  of  the  boy.  You  will  understand,"  he  added,  "that 
the  matter  is  entirely  supposititious.  I  would  prefer  to 
think  that  your  uncle  saw  unhappiness  for  the  boy  in 
a  change  of  guardianship,  and  unhappiness  for  the  grand 
father,  and  left  the  matter  open.  You  know  he  died  sud 
denly." 

There  was  silence  of  a  few  moments  and  Eldridge 
added:  "And  yet  it  does  seem  that  he  would  have  left 
the  old  man  something  to  settle  the  doubt  which  must 
have  rested  upon  his  mind ;  it  is  an  awful  thing  to  lose  a 
daughter  from  sight  and  live  out  one's  life  in  ignorance 
of  her  fate."  And  then,  as  Edward  made  no  reply,  "You 
found  nothing  whatever  to  explain  the  matter?" 

"Nothing!  In  the  desk,  to  which  his  note  directed  me, 
I  found  only  a  short  letter  of  directions;  one  of  which 
was  that  I  should  arrange  with  you  to  provide  for  Ger 
ald's  future  in  case  of  my  death.  The  desk  contained 
nothing  else  except  some  manuscripts — fragmentary  nar 
ratives  and  descriptions,  they  seemed."  Eldridge  smiled. 

"His  one  weakness,"  he  said.  Years  ago  John  Mor 
gan  became  impressed  with  the  idea  that  he  was  fitted 


ON  THE   BACK  TRAIL.  53 

for  literary  work  and  began  to  write  short  stories  for 
magazines,  under  a  nom  de  plume.  I  was  the  only  person 
who  shared  his  secret  and  together  we  told  many  a  good 
story  of  bench,  bar  and  practice.  Neither  of  us  had  much 
invention  and  our  career — you  see  I  claim  a  share — our 
career  was  limited  to  actual  occurrences.  When  our 
stock  of  ammunition  was  used  up  we  were  bankrupt. 
But  it  was  a  success  while  it  lasted.  Mr.  Morgan  had  a 
rapid,  vivid  style  of  presenting  scenes;  his  stories  were 
full  of  action  and  dramatic  situations  and  made  quite  a 
hit.  I  did  not  know  he  had  any  writings  left  over.  He 
used  to  say,  though,  as  I  remember  now,  speaking  in  the 
serio-comic  way  he  often  affected,  that  the  great  American 
novel,  so  long  expected,  lay  in  his  desk  in  fragments. 
You  have  probably  got  among  these. 

"And  by  the  way,"  continued  the  judge,  impressively, 
"he  was  not  far  wrong  in  his  estimate  of  the  literary  pos 
sibilities  of  this  section.  The  peculiar  institutions  of  the 
south,  its  wealth,  its  princely  planters,  and  through  all 
the  tangle  of  love,  romance,  tragedy  and  family  secrets. 
And  what  a  background!  The  war,  the  freed  slaves, 
the  old  regime — courtly,  unchanged,  impractical  and 
helpless.  Turgeneff  wrote  under  such  a  situation  in  Rus 
sia,  and  called  his  powerful  novel  'Fathers  and  Sons/ 
Mr.  Morgan  used  to  say  that  he  was  going  to  call  his 
'Sons  and  Fathers.'  Hold  to  his  fragments;  he  was  a 
close  observer,  and  if  you  have  literary  aspirations  they 
will  be  suggestive."  Edward  shook  his  head. 

"I  have  none,  but  I  see  the  force  of  your  outline.  Now 
about  Gerald ;  I  trust  you  will  think  over  the  matter  and 
let  me  know  what  your  judgment  suggests.  I  promised 
Mr.  Montjoy  to  drop  in  at  the  club.  I  will  say  good- 
morning." 

"No,"  said  Eldridge,  "it  is  my  lunch  hour  and  I  will 
go  with  you." 

Together  they  went  to  a  business  club  and  Edward 
was  presented  to  a  group  of  elderly  men  who  were  dis 
cussing  politics  over  their  glasses.  Among  them  was 
Col.  Montjoy,  in  town  for  a  day,  several  capitalists,  a 
planter  or  two,  lawyers  and  physicians.  They  regarded 
the  newcomer  with  interest  and  received  him  with  per- 


54  SONS    AND   FATHEBS. 

feet  courtesy.  "A  grand  man  your  relative  was,  Mr. 
Morgan,  a  grand  man;  perfect  type,  sir,  of  the  southern 
gentleman!  The  community,  sir,  has  met  with  an  irrepar 
able  loss.  I  trust  you  will  make  your  home  here,  sir.  We 
need  good  men,  sir;  strong,  brainy,  energetic  men,  sir." 

So  said  the  central  figure,  Gen.  Albert  Evan. 

"Montjoy,  you  remember  cousin  Sam  Pope  of  the  Fire- 
Eaters — died  in  the  ditch  at  Marye's  Heights  near  Cobb; 
perfect  likeness  of  Mr.  Morgan  here;  same  face,  same 
figure — pardon  the  personal  allusion,  Mr.  Morgan,  but 
your  prototype  was  the  bravest  of  the  brave.  You  do 
each  other  honor  in  the  resemblance,  sir!  Waiter,  fill 
these  glasses!  Gentlemen,"  cried  the  general,  "we  will 
drink  to  the  health  of  our  young  friend  and  the  memory 
}f  Sam  Pope.  God  bless  them  both." 

Such  was  Edward's  novel  reception,  and  he  would 
not  have  been  human  had  he  not  flushed  with  pleasure. 
The  conversation  ran  back  gradually  to  its  original  chan 
nel. 

"We  have  been  congratulating  Col.  Montjoy,  Mr.  Mor 
gan,"  said  one  of  the  party  in  explanation  to  Morgan, 
'upon  the  announcement  of  his  candidacy  for  congress." 

"Ah,"  said  the  latter,  promptly  bowing  to  the  old  gen 
tleman,  "let  me  express  the  hope  that  the  result  will  be 
such  as  will  enable  me  to  congratulate  the  country.  I 
stand  ready,  colonel,  to  lend  my  aid  as  far  as  possible, 
but  I  am  hampered  somewhat  by  not  knowing  my  own 
politics  yet.  Are  you  on  the  democratic  or  republican 
ticket,  colonel?" 

This  astonishing  question  silenced  the  conversation 
instantly  and  drew  every  eye  upon  him.  But  recovering 
from  his  shock,  Col.  Montjoy  smiled  amiably,  and  said: 

"There  is  but  one  party  in  this  state,  sir — the  demo 
cratic.  I  am  a  candidate  for  nomination,  but  nomination 
is  election  always  with  us."  Then  to  the  others  present 
he  added:  "Mr.  Morgan  has  lived  abroad  since  he  came 
of  age — I  am  right,  am  I  not,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Quite  so.  And  I  may  add,"  continued  Edward,  who 
was  painfully  conscious  of  having  made  a  serious  blunder, 
"that  I  have  never  lived  in  the  south  and  know  nothing 
of  state  politics."  This  would  have  been  sufficient,  but 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  STORM.  55 

unfortunately  Edward  did  not  realize  it.  "I  know,  how 
ever,  that  you  have  here  a  great  problem  and  that  the 
world  is  watching  to  see  how  you  will  handle  the  race 
question.  I  wish  you  success;  the  negro  has  my  sym 
pathy  and  I  think  that  much  can  be  safely  allowed  him  in 
the  settlement.'' 

He  remembered  always  thereafter  the  silence  that  fol 
lowed  this  earnest  remark,  and  he  had  cause  to  remem 
ber  it.  He  had  touched  the  old  south  in  its  rawest  point, 
and  he  was  too  new  a  citizen.  Eldridge  joined  him  in  the 
walk  back,  but  Edward  let  him  talk  for  both.  The  direc 
tion  of  his  thoughts  was  indicated  in  the  question  he 
asked  at  parting. 

"Judge  Eldridge,  did  you  purposely  withhold  the  girl's 
name — my  uncle's  fiancee?  If  so,  I  will  not  ask  it, 
but "  " 

"No,  not  purposely,  but  we  handle  names  reluctantly 
in  this  country.  She  was  Marion  Evan,  and  you  but  re 
cently  met  her  father." 


CHAPTER    IX. 

THE   TRAGEDY  IN    THE    STORM! 

Edward  returned  to  Ilexhurst  that  evening  conscious 
of  a  mental  uneasiness.  He  could  not  account  for  it  ex 
cept  upon  the  hypothesis  of  unusual  excitement.  His 
mind  had  simply  failed  to  react.  And  yet  to  his  sensitive 
nature  there  was  something  more.  Was  it  the  conver 
sation  with  Eldridge  and  the  sudden  dissipation  of  his 
error  concerning  Gerald,  or  did  it  date  to  the  meeting 
in  the  club?  There  was  a  discord  somewhere.  He  be 
came  conscious  after  awhile  that  he  had  failed  to  har 
monize  with  his  new  acquaintances  and  that  among  these 
was  Col.  Montjoy.  He  seemed  to  feel  an  ache  as  though 
a  cold  wind  blew  upon  his  heart.  If  he  had  not  made 
that  unfortunate  remark  about  the  negro!  He  acquitted 
himself  very  readily,  but  he  could  not  forget  that  terrible 


56  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

silence.  "I  have  great  sympathy  for  the  negro,"  he  had 
said.  What  he  meant  was  that,  secure  in  her  power  and 
intelligence,  her  courage  and  advancement,  the  south 
could  safely  concede  much  to  the  lower  class.  That  is 
what  he  felt  and  believed,  but  he  had  not  said  it  that 
way.  He  would  say  it  to-morrow  to  Col.  Mont  joy  and 
explain.  Relief  followed  the  resolution. 

And  then,  sitting  in  the  little  room,  which  began  to 
exert  a  strange  power  over  him,  he  reviewed  in  mind 
the  strange  history  of  the  people  whose  lives  had  begun 
to  touch  his.  The  man  downstairs,  sleeping  off  the  effects 
of  the  drug,  taken  to  dull  a  feverish  brain  that  had  all 
day  struggled  with  new  problems;  what  a  life  his  was! 
Educated  beyond  the  scope  of  any  single  university, 
Eldridge  had  said,  and  yet  a  child,  less  than  a  child!  What 
romance,  what  tragedies  behind  those  restless  eyes!  And 
sleeping  down  yonder  by  the  river,  in  that  eternal  silence 
of  the  city  of  the  dead,  the  old  lawyer,  a  mystery  living, 
a  mystery  dead !  What  a  depth  of  love  must  have  stirred 
the  bosom  of  the  man  to  endure  in  silence  for  so  many 
years  for  the  sake  of  a  fickle  girl!  What  forgiveness! 
Or  was  it  revenge?  This  idea  flashed  upon  Edward  with 
the  suddenness  of  an  inspiration.  Revenge!  What  a 
revenge!  And  the  woman,  was  she  living  or  dead?  And 
if  living,  were  her  eyes  to  watch  him,  Edward  Morgan, 
and  his  conduct?  Where  was  the  father  and  why  was 
the  grandfather  ignorant  or  silent?  Then  he  turned  to 
his  own  problem.  That  was  an  old  story.  As  he  sat 
dreaming  over  these  things  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  frag 
mentary  manuscripts,  and  almost  idly  he  began  to  read 
the  briefs  upon  them. 

One  was  inscribed,  "The  Storm,"  and  it  seemed  to 
be  the  bulkiest.  Opening  it  he  began  to  read;  before  he 
knew  it  he  was  interested.  The  chapter  read: 

"Not  a  zephyr  stirred  the  expectant  elms.  They  lifted 
their  arms  against  the  starlit  sky  in  shadowy  tracery,  and 
motionless  as  a  forest  of  coral  in  the  tideless  depths  of  a 
southern  sea. 

"The  cloud  still  rose. 

"It  was  a  cloud  indeed.  It  stretched  across  the  west, 
far  into  north  and  south,  its  base  lost  in  the  shadow, 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  STORM.  57 

its  upper  line  defined  and  advancing  swiftly,  surely,  flank 
ing  the  city  and  shutting  out  the  stars  with  its  mighty 
wings.  Far  down  the  west  the  lightning  began  to  tear 
the  mass,  but  still  the  spell  of  silence  remained.  When 
this  strange  hush  is  combined  with  terrific  action,  when 
the  vast  forces  are  so  swift  as  to  outrun  sound,  then, 
indeed,  does  the  chill  of  fear  leap  forth. 

"So  came  on  the  cloud.  Now  the  city  was  half  sur 
rounded,  its  walls  scaled.  Half  the  stars  were  gone. 
Some  of  the  flying  battalions  had  even  rushed  past! 

"But  the  elms  stood  changeless,  immovable,  asleep! 

"Suddenly  one  vivid,  crackling,  tearing,  deafening  flash 
of  intensest  light  split  the  gloom  and  the  thunder  leaped 
into  the  city!  It  awoke  then!  Every  foundation  trem 
bled!  Every  tree  dipped  furiously.  The  winds  burst  in. 
What  a  tumult!  They  rushed  down  the  parallel  streets 
and  alleys,  these  barbarians;  they  came  by  the  inter 
secting  ways !  They  fought  each  other  frantically  for  the 
spoils  of  the  city,  struggling  upward  in  equal  conflict, 
carrying  dust  and  leaves  and  debris.  They  were  sucked 
down  by  the  hollow  squares,  they  wept  and  mourned, 
they  sobbed  about  doorways,  they  sung  and  cheered 
among  the  chimneys  and  the  trembling  vanes.  They 
twisted  away  great  tree  limbs  and  hurled  them  far  out 
into  the  spaces  which  the  lightning  hollowed  in  the  night! 
They  drove  every  inhabitant  indoors  and  tugged  frantic 
ally  at  the  city's  defenses!  They  tore  off  shutters  and 
lashed  the  housetops  with  the  poor  trees! 

"The  focus  of  the  battle  was  the  cathedral!  It  was 
the  citadel!  Here  were  wrath  and  frenzy  and  despair! 
The  winds  swept  around  and  upward,  with  measureless 
force,  and  at  times  seemed  to  lift  the  great  pile  from  its 
foundations.  But  it  was  the  lashing  trees  that  deceived 
the  eye;  it  stood  immovable,  proud,  strong,  while  the 
evil  ones  hurled  their  maledictions  and  screamed  defiance 
at  the  very  door  of  God's  own  heart. 

"In  vain.  In  a  far  up  niche  stood  a  weather-beaten 
saint — the  warden.  The  hand  of  God  upheld  him  and 
kept  the  citadel  while  unseen  forces  swung  the  great 
bell  to  voice  his  faith  and  trust  amid  the  gloom! 

"Then  came  the  deluge,  huge  drops,  bullets  almost, 


58  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

in  fierceness,  shivering  each  other  until  the  street-lamps 
seemed  set  in  driving  fog  through  which  the  silvered 
missiles  flashed  horizontally — a  storm  traveling  within  a 
storm. 

"But  when  the  tempest  weeps,  its  heart  is  gone.  Hark! 
Tis  the  voice  of  the  great  organ;  how  grand,  how  noble, 
how  triumphant!  One  burst  of  melody  louder  than  the 
rest  breaks  through  the  storm  and  mingles  with  the  thun 
der's  roar. 

"Look!  A  woman!  She  has  come,  whence  God  alone 
may  know!  She  totters  toward  the  cathedral;  a  step 
more  and  she  is  safe,  but  it  is  never  taken!  One  other 
frightened  life  has  sought  the  sanctuary.  In  the  grasp 
of  the  tempest  it  has  traveled  with  wide-spread  wings; 
a  great  white  sea  bird,  like  a  soul  astray  in  the  depths  of 
passions.  It  falls  into  the  eddy,  struggles  wearily  toward 
the  lights,  whirls  about  the  woman's  head  and  sinks, 
gasping,  dying  at  her  feet.  The  God-pity  rises  within 
her,  triumphing  over  fear  and  mortal  anguish.  She 
stands  motionless  a  moment;  she  does  not  take  the  wan 
derer  to  her  bosom,  she  cannot!  The  winds  have  stripped 
the  cover  from  the  burden  in  her  arms!  It  is  a  child's 
coffin,  pressed  against  her  bosom.  The  moment  of  safety 
is  gone!  In  the  next  a  man,  the  seeming  incarnation 
of  the  storm  itself,  springs  upon  her,  tears  the  burden 
from  her  and  disappears  like  a  shadow  within  a  shadow! 

"Within  the  cathedral  they  are  celebrating  the  birth  of 
Christ.  Without  the  elements  repeat  the  scene  when  the 

veil  of  the  temple  was  rended. 

*  *  *  * 

"The  storm  had  passed.  The  lightning  still  blazed  viv 
idly,  but  silently  now,  and  at  each  flash  the  scene  stood 
forth  an  instant  as  though  some  mighty  artist  was  mak 
ing  pictures  with  magnesium.  A  tall  woman,  who  had 
crouched  as  one  under  the  influence  of  an  overpowering 
terror  near  the  inner  door,  now  crept  to  the  outer,  be 
neath  the  arch,  and  looked  fearfully  about.  She  went 
down  the  few  steps  to  the  pavement.  Suddenly  in  the 
transient  light  a  face  looked  up  into  hers,  from  her  feet; 
a  face  that  seemed  not  human.  The  features  were  con 
vulsed,  the  eyes  set.  With  a  low  cry  the  woman  slipped 


THE  TRAGEDY  IN  THE  STORM.         59 

her  arms  under  the  figure  on  the  pavement,  lifted  it  as 
though  it  were  that  of  a  child  and  disappeared  in  the 
night.  The  face  that  had  looked  up  was  as  white  as  the 
lily  at  noon;  the  face  bent  in  pity  above  it  was  dark  as 
the  leaves  of  that  lily  scattered  upon  the  sod." 

Edward  read  this  and  smiled,  as  he  laid  it  aside,  and 
continued  with  the  other  papers.  They  were  brief 
sketches  and  memoranda  of  chapters ;  sometimes  a  single 
sentence  upon  a  page,  just  as  his  friend  De  Maupassant 
used  to  jot  them  down  one  memorable  summer  when 
they  had  lingered  together  along  the  Riviera,  but  they 
had  no  connection  with  "The  Storm"  and  the  characters 
therein  suggested.  If  they  belonged  to  the  same  narra 
tive  the  connections  were  gone. 

Wearied  at  last  he  took  up  his  violin  and  began  to  play. 
It  is  said  that  improvisers  cannot  but  run  back  to  the 
music  they  have  written.  "Calvary"  was  his  masterpiece 
and  soon  he  found  himself  lost  in  its  harmonies.  Then 
by  easy  steps  there  rose  in  memory,  as  he  played, 
the  storm  and  Gerald's  sketch.  He  paused  abruptly  and 
sat  with  his  bow  idle  upon  the  strings,  for  in  his  mind  a 
link  had  formed  between  that  sketch  and  the  chapter 
he  had  just  read.  He  had  felt  the  story  was  true  when  he 
read  it.  The  lawyer  had  said  John  Morgan  wrote  from 
life.  Here  was  the  first  act  of  a  drama  in  the  life  of  a 
child,  and  the  last,  perhaps,  in  the  life  of  a  woman. 

And  that  child  under  the  influence  of  music  had  felt 
the  storm  scene  flash  upon  his  memory  and  had  drawn 
it.  The  child  was  Gerald  Morgan. 

Edward  laid  aside  the  violin  for  a  moment,  went  into 
the  front  room,  threw  open  the  shutters  and  loosened 
his  cravat.  Something  seemed  to  suffocate  him,  as  he 
struggled  against  the  admission  of  this  irresistible  con 
clusion.  Overwhelmed  with  the  significance  of  the  dis 
covery,  he  exclaimed  aloud:  "It  was  an  inherited  mem 
ory."  ' 

But  if  the  boy  had  been  born  under  the  circumstances 
set  forth  in  the  sketch,  who  was  the  man,  and  why  should 
he  have  assaulted  the  woman  who  bore  the  child's  coffin? 
And  what  was  she  doing  abroad  under  such  circum 
stances?  The  man  and  the  woman's  object  was  hidden 


60  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

perhaps  forever.  But  not  so  the  woman;  the  artist 
had  given  her  features,  and  as  for  the  other  woman,  the 
author  had  said  she  was  dark.  How  curiously  the  testi 
mony  fitted  in!  There  was  in  Gerald's  mind  picture  no 
dark  woman ;  only  the  girl  with  the  coffin,  the  arch  above 
and  the  faint  outlines  of  bending  trees! 


CHAPTER  X. 
"GOD  PITY  ME!     GOD  PITY  ME!" 

Edward  was  sitting  thus  lost  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  circumstances  surrounding  him,  when  by  that  subtle 
sense  as  yet  not  analyzed  he  felt  the  presence  of  another 
person  in  the  room,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  Gerald 
was  advancing  toward  him  smiling  mysteriously.  Edward 
noticed  his  burning  eyes  and  saw  intense  mental  excite 
ment  gleaming  beyond.  The  man's  mood  was  different 
from  any  he  had  before  revealed. 

"So  you  have  been  out  among  the  friends  of  your 
family,"  he  said,  with  his  queer  smile.  "How  did  you 
like  them?"  Edward  was  distinctly  offended  by  the  su 
percilious  manner  and  impertinent  question,  but  he  re 
membered  his  ward's  condition  and  resentment  passed 
from  him. 

"Pleasant  people,  Gerald,  but  I  am  not  gifted  with 
the  faculty  of  making  friends  easily.  How  come  on  your 
experiments?" 

The  visitor's  expression  changed.  He  looked  about 
him  guardedly.  "They  advance,"  he  replied,  in  a  whisper; 
"they  advance!" 

Whatever  his  motive  for  entering  that  room — a  room 
unfamiliar  to  him,  for  his  restless  eyes  had  searched  it  over 
and  over  in  the  few  minutes  he  had  been  in  it — was  forgot 
ten  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  scientist.  "I  have  mapped  out 
a  course  and  am  working  toward  it,"  he  said;  and  then 
presently:  "You  remember  that  pictures  can  now  be 
transmitted  by  electricity  across  great  stretches  of  space 


"GOD  PITY  ME!     GOD  PITY  ME!"  61 

and  flashed  upon  a  disk?  So  goes  the  scene  from  the 
convex  surface  of  the  eye  along  a  thread-like  nerve,  so 
flashes  the  picture  in  the  brain.  But  somewhere  there  it 
remains.  How  to  prove  it,  to  prove  it,  that  is  the  ques 
tion!  Oh,  for  a  brain,  a  brain  to  dissect!"  He  glared 
at  Edward,  who  shuddered  under  the  wildness  of  the  eyes 
bent  upon  him.  "But  time  enough  for  that;  I  must  first 
ascertain  if  a  picture  can  be  imprinted  upon  any  living 
substance  by  light,  and  remain.  This  I  can  do  in  another 
way." 

"How?"    Edward  was  fascinated. 

"It  is  a  great  idea.  The  fish's  eye  will  not  do;  it  is 
itself  a  camera  and  the  protecting  film  is  impression- 
proof.  It  lacks  the  gelatine  surface,  but  over  some  fish 
is  spread  the  real  gelatine — in  fact,  the  very  stuff  that 
sensitive  plates  rely  upon.  In  our  lake  is  a  great  bass, 
that  swims  deep.  I  have  caught  them  weighing  ten  and 
twelve  pounds.  They  are  pale,  greenish  white  until  ex 
posed  to  the  light,  when  they  darken.  If  the  combined 
action  of  the  light  and  air  did  not  actually  destroy  this 
gelatine,  they  would  turn  black.  The  back,  which  daily 
receives  the  downward  ray  direct,  is  as  are  the  backs  of 
most  fishes,  dark;  it  is  a  spoiled  plate.  But  not  so  the 
sides.  It  is  upon  this  fish  I  am  preparing  to  make  pic 
tures." 

"But  how?"     Gerald  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Wait.     It  is  too  important  to  talk  about  in  advance." 

Edward  regarded  him  long  and  thoughtfully  and  felt 
rising  within  him  a  greater  sympathy.  It  was  pitiful  that 
such  a  mind  should  die  in  the  embrace  of  a  mere  drug, 
dragged  down  to  destruction  by  a  habit.  "'Beyond  the 
scope  of  any  single  university,"  but  not  beyond  the  slavery 
of  a  weed. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Gerald,"  he  said,  finally,  fixing 
a  steady  gaze  upon  the  restless  eyes  of  his  visitor,  "that 
the  day  is  near  at  hand  when  you  must  bring  to  your 
rescue  the  power  of  a  great  will." 

Gerald  listened,  grew  pale  and  remained  silent.  Pres 
ently  he  turned  to  the  speaker. 

"You  know,  then.    Tell  me  what  to  do." 

"You  must  cease  the  use  of  morphine  and  opium." 


62  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

Gerald  drew  a  deep  breath  and  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"Oh,  that  is  it,"  he  said;  "some  one  has  told  you  that 
I  am  a  victim  of  morphine  and  opium.  Well,  what  would 
you  think  if  I  should  tell  you  he  is  simply  mistaken?" 

His  face  was  frank  and  unclouded.  Edward  gazed  upon 
him,  incredulous.  After  a  moment's  pause,  during  which 
Gerald  enjoyed  his  astonishment,  he  continued: 

"I  was  once  a  victim;  there  is  no  doubt  of  that;  but 
now  I  am  cured.  It  was  a  frightful  struggle.  A  man 
who  has  not  experienced  it  or  witnessed  it  can  form  no 
conception  of  what  it  means  to  break  away  from  habitual 
use  of  opium.  Some  day  you  may  need  it  and  my  exper 
ience  will  help  you.  I  began  by  cutting  my  customary 
allowance  for  a  day  in  half,  and  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  I  kept  on  cutting  it  in  half  until  the  time  came  when 
I  could  not  divide  it  with  a  razor.  Would  you  believe  it, 
the  habit  was  as  strong  in  the  end  as  in  the  beginning? 
I  lay  awake  and  thought  of  that  little  speck  by  the  hours ; 
I  tossed  and  cried  myself  to  sleep  over  it!  I  slept  and 
wept  myself  awake.  The  only  remedy  for  this  and  all 
habits  is  a  mental  victory.  I  made  the  fight — I  won ! 

"I  can  never  forget  that  day,"  and  he  smiled  as  he  said 
it;  "the  day  I  found  it  impossible  to  divide  the  speck  of 
opium;  a  breath  would  have  blown  it  away,  but  I  would 
have  murdered  the  man  who  breathed  upon  it.  I  swal 
lowed  it;  the  touch  of  that  atom  is  yet  upon  my  tongue; 
I  swallowed  it  and  slept  like  a  child;  and  then  came  the 
waking!  For  days  I  was  a  maniac — but  it  passed. 

"I  grew  into  a  new  life — a  beautiful,  peaceful  world. 
It  had  been  around  me  all  the  time,  but  I  had  forgotten 
how  it  looked;  a  blissful  world!  I  was  cured. 

"Years  have  passed  since  that  day,  and  no  taste  of  the 
hateful  drug  has  ever  been  upon  my  tongue.  Not  for  all 
the  gold  in  the  universe,  not  for  any  secrets  of  science, 
not  for  a  look  back  into  the  face  of  my  mother,"  he  cried, 
hoarsely,  rising  to  his  feet;  "not  for  a  smile  from  heaven 
would  I  lay  hands  upon  that  fiend  again!" 

He  closed  abruptly,  his  hand  trembling,  the  perspira 
tion  beading  his  brow.  His  eyes  fell  and  the  woman  Rita 
stood  before  them,  a  look  of  ineffable  sadness  and  ten 
derness  upon  her  face. 


"GOD  PITY  MB!    GOD  PITY  MB!0  63 

"Will  you  retire  now,  Master  Gerald?"  she  said,  gently. 
Without  a  word  he  turned  and  left  the  room.  She  was 
about  to  follow  when  Edward,  excited  and  touched  by 
the  scene  he  had  witnessed  and  full  of  his  discoveries, 
stopped  her  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

For  a  moment  he  paced  the  room.  Rita  was  motionless, 
awaiting  with  evident  nervousness  his  pleasure.  He  came 
and  stood  before  her,  and,  looking  her  steadily  in  the 
face,  said,  abruptly: 

"Woman,  what  is  the  name  of  that  young  man,  and 
what  is  mine?" 

She  drew  back  quickly  and  her  lips  parted  in  a  gasp. 

"My  God!"  he  heard  her  whisper. 

"I  demand  an  answer!  You  carry  the  secret  of  one 
of  us — probably  both.  Which  is  the  son  of  Marion 
Evan?" 

She  sunk  upon  her  knees  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
apron. 

It  was  all  true,  then.  Edward  felt  as  though  he  him 
self  would  sink  down  beside  her  if  the  silence  continued. 

"Say  it,"  he  said,  hoarsely;   "say  it!" 

"As  God  is  my  judge,"  she  answered,  faintly,  "I  do 
not  know." 

"One  is?" 

"One  is." 

"And  the  other— who  is  he?" 

"Mine."  The  answer  was  like  a  whisper  from  the  pines 
wafted  in  through  the  open  window.  It  was  loud  enough. 
Edward  caught  the  chair  for  support.  The  world  reeled 
about  him.  He  suffocated. 

Rita  still  knelt  with  covered  head,  but  her  trembling 
form  betrayed  the  presence  of  the  long-restrained  emo 
tions.  He  walked  unsteadily  to  the  mantel,  and,  drawing 
the  cover  from  the  little  picture,  went  to  the  mirror  and 
placed  it  again  by  his  face.  At  length  he  said  in  despair: 

"God  pity  me!     God  pity  me!" 

The  woman  arose  then  and  took  the  picture  and  gazed 
long  and  earnestly  upon  it.  A  sob  burst  from  her  lips. 
Lifting  it  again  to  the  level  of  the  man's  face,  he  watch 
ing  her  with  a  fascination  he  could  not  resist,  she  looked 
from  one  to  the  other. 


64  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Enough !"  he  said,  reading  it  aright. 

Despair  had  settled  over  his  own  face.  She  handed 
back  the  little  likeness,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  stood  in 
simple  dignity  awaiting  his  will.  He  noticed  then,  as 
he  studied  her  countenance  closely,  the  lines  of  suffering 
there;  the  infallible  record  that  some  faces  carry,  which, 
whether  it  stands  for  remorse,  for  patience,  for  pure, 
unbroken  sorrow,  is  always  a  consecration. 

"Master,  it  must  have  come  some  time,"  she  said,  at 
length,  "but  I  have  hoped  it  would  not  be  through  me." 
Her  voice  was  just  audible. 

"Be  seated,"  said  Morgan.  "If  your  story  is  true,  and 
it  may  be  so,  you  should  not  stand."  He  turned  away 
from  her  and  walked  to  the  window;  she  was  seeking  for 
an  opening  to  begin  her  story.  He  began  for  her: 

"You  crouched  in  a  church  door  to  avoid  the  storm; 
a  woman  seeking  shelter  there  appeared  just  outside.  She 
was  attacked  by  a  man  and  fell  to  the  ground  uncon 
scious;  you  carried  her  off  in  your  arms;  her  child  was 
born  soon  after,  and  what  then?" 

Amazed  she  stared  at  him  a  moment  in  silence. 

"And  mine  was  born !  The  fright,  the  horror,  the  sick 
ness!  It  was  a  terrible  dream;  a  terrible  dream!  But  a 
month  afterward,  I  was  here  alone  with  two  babies  at 
my  breast  and  the  mother  of  one  was  gone.  God  help 
me,  and  help  her!  But  in  that  time  Master  John  says  I 
lost  the  memory  of  my  own  child!  Master  Gerald  I 
claimed,  but  his  face  was  the  face  of  Miss  Marion,  and  he 
was  white  and  delicate  like  her.  And  you,  sir,  were  dark. 
And  then  I  had  never  been  a  slave ;  John  Morgan's  father 
gave  me  my  liberty  when  I  was  born.  I  lived  with  him 
until  my  marriage,  then  after  my  husband's  death,  which 
was  just  before  this  storm,  they  brought  me  here  and  I 
waited.  She  never  came  back.  Master  Gerald  was  sickly 
always  and  we  kept  him,  but  they  sent  you  away.  Master 
John  thought  it  was  best.  And  the  years  have  passed 
quickly." 

"And  Gen.  Evan — did  he  never  know?" 

"No,  sir;  I  would  not  let  them  take  Master  Gerald, 
because  I  believed  he  was  my  child;  and  Master  John,  I 
suppose,  would  not  believe  in  you.  The  families  are 


'GOD  PITY  ME!    GOD  PITY  MB!"  65 

proud;  we  let  things  rest  as  they  were,  thinking  Miss 
Marion  would  come  back  some  day.  But  she  will  not 
come  now;  she  will  not  come!" 

The  miserable  secret  was  out.  After  a  long  silence 
Edward  lifted  his  head  and  said  with  deep  emotion: 
'Then,  in  your  opinion,  I  am  your  son?"  She  looked  at 
him  sadly  and  nodded. 

"And  in  the  opinion  of  John  Morgan,  Gerald  is  the 
son  of  Marion  Evan?"  She  bowed. 

"We  have  let  it  stand  that  way.  But  you  should  never 
have  known!  I  do  not  think  you  were  ever  to  have 
known."  The  painful  silence  that  followed  was  broken 
by  his  question: 

"Gerald's  real  name?" 

"I  do  not  know!  I  do  not  know!  All  that  I  do  know 
I  have  told  you!" 

"And  the  child's  coffin?"  She  pressed  her  hand  to  her 
forehead. 

"It  was  a  dream;  I  do  not  know!" 

He  gazed  upon  her  with  profound  emotion  and  pity. 

"You  must  be  tired,"  he  said,  gently.  "Think  no  more 
of  these  troubles  to-night." 

She  turned  and  went  away.  He  followed  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs  and  waited  until  he  heard  her  step  in  the 
hall  below. 

"Good-night,"  he  had  said,  gravely.  And  from  the 
shadowy  depths  below  came  back  a  faint,  mournful  echo 
of  the  word. 

When  Edward  returned  to  the  room  he  sat  by  the  win 
dow  and  buried  his  face  upon  his  arm.  Hour  after  hour 
passed;  the  outer  world  slept.  Had  he  been  of  the  south, 
reared  there  and  a  sharer  in  its  traditions,  the  secret 
would  have  died  with  him  that  night  and  its  passing 
would  have  been  signaled  by  a  single  pistol  shot.  But  he 
was  not  of  the  south,  in  experience,  association  or  edu 
cation. 

It  was  in  the  hush  of  midnight  that  he  rose  from  his 
seat,  took  the  picture  and  descended  the  steps.  The  wing- 
room  was  never  locked ;  he  entered.  Through  the  drawn 
curtains  of  the  glass-room  he  saw  the  form  of  Gerald 
lying  in  the  moonlight  upon  his  narrow  bed.  Placing  the 
5 


66  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

picture  beside  the  still,  white  face  of  the  sleeper,  he  was 
shocked  by  the  likeness.  One  glance  was  enough.  He 
went  back  to  his  window  again. 

One,  two,  three,  four  o'clock  from  the  distant  church 
steeple. 

How  the  solemn  numbers  have  tolled  above  the  sor 
row-folds  of  the  human  heart  and  echoed  in  the  dewless 
valleys  of  the  mind,  the  depths  to  which  we  sink  when 
hope  is  gone! 

But  with  the  dawn  what  shadows  flee ! 

So  came  the  dawn  at  last;  the  pale,  tremulous  glimmer 
on  the  eastern  hills,  the  white  light,  the  rosy  flush  and 
then  in  the  splendor  of  fading  mists  the  giant  sun  rolled 
up  the  sky. 

A  man  stood  pale  and  weary  before  the  open  window 
at  Ilexhurst.  "The  odds  are  against  me,"  he  said,  grimly, 
"but  I  feel  a  power  within  me  stronger  than  evidence. 
I  will  match  it  against  the  word  of  this  woman,  though 
every  circumstance  strengthened  that  word.  The  voice 
of  the  Caucasian,  not  the  voice  of  Ethiopia,  speaks  within 
me!  The  woman  does  not  believe  herself;  the  mother's 
instinct  has  been  baffled,  but  not  destroyed!" 

And  yet  that  fatal  likeness — and  the  fatal  absence  of 
likeness! 

And  yet  again,  the  patrician  bearing,  the  aristocrat! 
Such  was  Gerald. 

"We  shall  see,"  he  said,  between  his  teeth.  "Wait  until 
Virdow  comes!" 

Nevertheless,  when,  not  having  slept,  he  arose  late  in 
the  day,  he  was  almost  overwhelmed  with  the  memory 
of  the  revelation  made  to  him,  and  the  effect  it  must  have 
upon  his  future. 

At  that  moment  there  came  into  his  mind  the  face  of 
Mary. 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  MISTS  OF  SUNSET.  67 

CHAPTER  XL 
IN  THE  CRIMSON  MISTS  OF  SUNSET. 

Edward  left  the  house  without  any  definite  idea  of  how 
he  would  carry  on  the  search  for  the  truth  of  his  own  his 
tory,  but  his  determination  was  complete.  He  did  not 
enter  the  dining-room,  but  called  for  his  buggy  and  drove 
direct  to  the  city.  He  wished  to  see  neither  Rita  nor 
Gerald  until  the  tumult  within  him  had  been  stilled.  His 
mind  was  yet  in  a  whirl  when  without  previous  resolution 
he  turned  his  horse  in  the  direction  of  "the  Hall"  and  let 
it  choose  its  gait.  The  sun  was  low  when  he  drew  up 
before  the  white-columned  house  and  entered  the  yard. 
Mary  stood  in  the  doorway  and  smiled  a  welcome,  but  as 
he  approached  she  looked  into  his  face  in  alarm. 

"You  have  been  ill?"  she  said,  with  quick  sympathy. 

"Do  I  look  it?"  he  asked;  "I  have  not  slept  well.  Per 
haps  that  shows  upon  me.  It  is  rather  dreary  work  this 
getting  acquainted."  He  tried  to  deceive  her  with  a 
smile. 

"How  ungallant!"  she  exclaimed,  "to  say  that  to  me, 
and  so  soon  after  we  have  become  acquainted." 

"We  are  old  acquaintances,  Miss  Montjoy,"  he  replied, 
with  more  earnestness  than  the  occasion  justified.  "I 
knew  you  in  Paris,  in  Rome,  even  in  India — I  have  known 
you  always."  She  blushed  slightly  and  turned  her  face 
away  as  a  lady  appeared  leading  a  little  girl. 

"Here  is  Mr.  Morgan,  Annie;  you  met  him  for  a  mo 
ment  only,  I  believe." 

The  newcomer  extended  her  hand  languidly. 

"Any  one  that  Norton  is  so  enthusiastic  about,"  she 
said,  without  warmth,  "must  be  worth  meeting  a  second 
time." 

Her  small  eyes  rested  upon  the  visitor  an  instant. 
Stunned  as  he  had  been  by  large  misfortunes,  he  felt 
again  the  unpleasant  impression  of  their  first  meeting. 
Whether  it  was  the  manner,  the  tone  of  voice,  the  glance 
or  languid  hand  that  slipped  limply  from  his  own,  or  all 
combined,  he  did  not  know ;  he  did  not  care  much  at  that 


68  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

time.  The  young  woman  placed  the  freed  hand  over 
the  mouth  of  the  child  begging  for  a  biscuit,  and  without 
looking  down  said: 

''Mary,  get  this  brat  a  biscuit,  please.  She  will  drive 
me  distracted."  Mary  stooped  and  the  Duchess  leaped 
into  her  arms,  happy  at  once.  Edward  followed  them 
with  his  eyes  until  they  reached  the  turn  of  the  porch 
and  Mary  turned  a  moment  to  receive  additional  direc 
tions  from  the  young  mother.  He  knew,  then,  where  he 
had  first  seen  her.  She  was  a  little  madonna  in  a  roadside 
shrine  in  Sicily,  distinct  and  different  from  all  the  madon 
nas  of  his  acquaintance,  in  that  she  seemed  to  have 
stepped  up  direct  from  among  the  people  who  knelt  there ; 
a  motherly  little  woman  in  touch  with  every  home  nestling 
in  those  hills.  The  young  mother  by  him  was  watching 
him  with  curiosity. 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  a  beautiful  picture,"  he  said. 

"You  are  an  artist,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  a  dilettante.  But  the  picture  of  a  woman  with 
her  child  in  her  arms  appeals  to  most  men;  to  none  more 
than  him  who  never  knew  a  mother  nor  had  a  home." 
He  stopped  suddenly,  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face  and 
brain,  and  he  came  near  staggering.  He  had  forgotten 
for  the  moment. 

He  recovered,  to  find  the  keen  eyes  of  the  woman 
studying  him  intently.  Did  she  know,  did  she  suspect? 
How  this  question  would  recur  to  him  in  all  the  years! 
He  turned  from  her  pale  and  angry.  Fortunately,  Mary 
returned  at  this  moment,  the  little  one  contentedly  munch 
ing  upon  its  biscuit.  The  elder  Mrs.  Montjoy  welcomed 
him  with  her  motherly  way,  inquiring  closely  into  his 
arrangements  for  comfort  out  at  Ilexhurst.  Who  was 
caring  for  him?  Rita!  Well,  that  was  fortunate;  Rita 
was  a  good  cook  and  good  housekeeper,  and  a  good 
nurse.  He  affected  a  careless  interest  and  she  continued: 

"Yes,  Rita  lived  for  years  near  here.  She  was  a  free 
woman  and  as  a  professional  nurse  accumulated  quite  a 
sum  of  money.  And  then,  her  husband  dying,  John  Mor 
gan  had  taken  her  to  his  house  to  look  after  a  young 
relative  who  had  been  left  to  his  care.  What  has  become 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  MISTS  OP  SUNSET.  69 

of  this  young  person?"  she  asked.  "I  have  not  heard  of 
him  for  many  years." 

"He  is  still  there,"  said  Edward,  briefly. 

And  then,  as  they  were  silent,  he  continued:  "This 
woman  Rita  had  a  husband;  how  did  they  manage  in 
old  times?  Was  he  free  also?  You  see,  since  I  have  be 
come  a  citizen  your  institutions  have  a  deal  of  interest  for 
me.  It  must  have  been  inconvenient  to  be  free  and  have 
some  one  else  owning  the  husband." 

He  was  not  satisfied  with  the  effort;  he  could  not  re 
strain  an  inclination  to  look  toward  the  younger  Mrs. 
Montjoy.  She  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with  eyes 
half-closed,  and  smiling  upon  him.  He  could  have 
strangled  her  cheerfully.  The  elder  lady's  voice  recalled 
him. 

"Her  husband  was  free  also;  that  is,  it  was  thought  that 
she  had  bought  him,"  and  she  smiled  over  the  idea. 

A  slanting  sunbeam  came  through  the  window;  they 
were  now  in  the  sitting-room  and  Mary  quickly  adjusted 
the  shade  to  shield  her  mother's  face. 

"Mamma  is  still  having  trouble  with  her  eyes,"  she 
said;  "we  cannot  afford  to  let  her  strain  the  sound  one." 

"My  eyes  do  pain  me  a  great  deal,"  the  elder  Mrs. 
Montjoy  said.  "Did  you  ever  have  neuralgia,  Mr.  Mor 
gan?  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  not  neuralgia.  I  must  have 

Dr.  Campbell  down  to  look  at  my  eyes.  I  am  afraid " 

she  did  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  the  quick  sympathy 
of  the  man  helped  him  to  read  her  silence  aright.  Mary 
caught  her  breath  nervously. 

"Mary,  take  me  to  my  room;  I  think  I  will  lie  down 
until  tea.  Mr.  Morgan  will  be  glad  to  walk  some,  I  am 
sure ;  take  him  down  to  the  mill."  She  gave  that  gentle 
man  her  hand  again;  a  hand  that  seemed  to  him  elo 
quent  with  gentleness.  "Good-night,  if  I  do  not  see  you 
again,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  go  to  the  table  now  on 
account  of  the  lamp."  He  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat  and 
an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  throw  himself  upon  her 
sympathy.  She  would  understand.  But  the  next  instant 
the  idea  of  such  a  thing  filled  him  with  horror.  It  would 
banish  him  forever  from  the  portals  of  that  proud  home. 

And  ought  he  not  to  banish  himself?    He  trembled  over 


70  SONS   AND    FATHERS. 

the  mental  question.  No !  His  courage  returned.  There 
had  been  some  horrible  mistake!  Not  until  the  light  of 
day  shone  on  the  indisputable  fact,  not  until  proof  irre 
sistible  had  said:  "You  are  base-born !  Depart!"  When 
that  hour  came  he  would  depart!  He  saw  Mary  waiting 
for  him  at  the  door;  the  young  mother  was  still  watching 
him,  he  thought.  He  bowed  and  strode  from  the  room. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  girl,  quickly;  "you  seem  excited." 
She  was  already  learning  to  read  him. 

"Do  I?  Well,  let  me  see;  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
ladies'  society,"  he  said,  lightly;  "so  much  beauty  and 
graciousness  have  overwhelmed  me."  He  was  outside 
now  and  the  fresh  breeze  revived  him  instantly. 

There  was  a  sun  setting  before  them  that  lent  a  glow  to 
the  girl's  face  and  a  new  light  to  her  eyes.  He  saw  it 
there  first  and  then  in  the  skies.  Across  a  gentle  slope 
of  land  that  came  down  from  a  mile  away  on  the  opposite 
side  into  their  valley  the  sun  had  gone  behind  a  shower. 
Out  on  one  side  a  fiery  cloud  floated  like  a  ship  afire,  and 
behind  it  were  the  lilac  highlands  of  the  sky.  The  scene 
brought  with  it  a  strange  solemnity.  It  held  the  last 
breath  of  the  dying  day. 

The  man  and  girl  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  contem 
plating  the  wonderful  vision.  She  looked  into  his  face 
presently  to  find  him  sadly  and  intently  watching  her. 
Wondering,  she  led  the  way  downhill  to  where  a  little 
boat  lay  with  its  bow  upon  the  grassy  sward  which  ran 
into  the  clear  water.  Taking  one  seat,  she  motioned 
him  to  the  other. 

"We  have  given  you  a  Venetian  water-color  sunset," 
she  said,  smiling  away  her  embarrassment,  "and  now  for 
a  gondola  ride."  Lightly  and  skillfully  plying  the  paddle 
the  little  craft  glided  out  upon  the  lake,  and  presently, 
poising  the  blade  she  said,  gayly: 

"Look  down  into  the  reflection,  and  then  look  up! 
Tell  me,  do  you  float  upon  the  lake  or  in  the  cloudy  re 
gions  of  heaven?"  He  followed  her  directions.  Then, 
looking  steadily  at  her,  he  said,  gently: 

"In  heaven !"  She  bent  over  the  boat  side  until  her  face 
was  concealed,  letting  her  hand  cool  in  the  crimson  water. 

"Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said  after  awhile,  looking  up  from 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  MISTS  OF  SUNSET.  71 

under  her  lashes,  "are  you  a  very  earnest  man?  I  do 
not  think  I  know  just  how  to  take  you.  I  am  afraid  I  am 
too  matter-of-fact." 

He  was  feverish  and  still  weighed  down  by  his  terrible 
memory.  "I  am  earnest  now,  whatever  I  may  have  been," 
he  said,  softly,  "and  believe  me,  Miss  Montjoy,  something 
tells  me  that  I  will  never  be  less  than  earnest  with  you." 

She  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  looked  off  into  the  cloud- 
lands. 

"You  have  traveled  much?"  she  said  at  length,  to  break 
the  awkward  silence. 

"I  suppose  so.  I  have  never  had  what  I  could  call  a 
home  and  I  have  moved  about  a  great  deal.  Men  of  my 
acquaintance,"  he  continued,  musingly,  "have  been  ambi 
tious  in  every  line;  I  have  watched  them  in  wonder. 
Most  of  them  sacrificed  what  it  has  been  my  greatest 
pleasure  to  possess — mother  and  sister  and  home.  I 
cannot  understand  that  phase  of  life;  I  suppose  I  never 
will." 

"Then  you  have  never  known  a  mother?" 

"Never."  There  was  something  in  his  voice  that 
touched  her  deeply. 

"To  miss  a  mother's  affection,"  she  said,  with  a  holy 
light  in  her  brown  eyes,  "is  to  miss  the  greatest  gift  heaven 
can  bestow  here.  I  suppose  a  wife  somehow  takes  a 
mother's  place,  finally,  with  every  man,  but  she  cannot 
fill  it.  No  woman  that  ever  lived  can  fill  my  mother's 
place." 

Loyal  little  Mary!  He  fancied  that  as  she  thought 
upon  her  own  remark  her  sensitive  lips  curved  slightly. 
His  mind  reverted  to  the  sinister  face  they  had  left  in  the 
parlor. 

"Your  mother!"  he  exclaimed,  fervently;  "would  to 
heaven  I  had  such  a  mother!"  He  paused,  overcome 
with  emotion.  She  looked  upon  him  with  swimming 
eyes. 

"You  must  come  often,  then,"  she  said,  softly,  "and  be 
much  with  us.  I  will  share  her  with  you.  Poor  mamma! 
I  am  afraid — I  am  afraid  for  her!"  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  suddenly  and  bowed  her  head. 

"Is  she  ill,  so  ill  as  all  that?"  he  asked,  greatly  con 
cerned. 


72  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Oh,  no!  That  is,  her  eyesight  is  failing;  she  does  not 
realize  it,  but  Dr.  Campbell  has  warned  us  to  be  careful." 

"What  is  the  trouble?"    He  was  now  deeply  distressed. 

"Glaucoma.  The  little  nerve  that  leads  from  the  cornea 
to  the  brain  finally  dies  away;  there  is  no  connection, 
and  then "  she  could  not  conclude  the  sentence. 

Edward  had  never  before  been  brought  within  the  in 
fluence  of  such  a  circle.  Her  words  thrilled  him  beyond 
expression.  He  waited  a  little  while  and  said: 

"I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  my  short  experience  here 
has  been  to  me.  The  little  touch  of  motherly  interest, 
of  home,  has  brought  me  more  genuine  pleasure  than  I 
thought  the  world  held  for  me.  You  said  just  now  that 
you  would  share  the  dear  little  mamma  with  me.  I  ac 
cept  the  generous  offer.  And  now  you  must  share  the 
care  of  the  little  mamma  with  me.  Do  not  be  offended, 
but  I  know  that  the  war  has  upset  your  revenues  here  in 
the  south,  and  that  the  new  order  of  business  has  not 
reached  a  paying  basis.  By  no  act  of  mine  I  am  inde 
pendent;  I  have  few  responsibilities.  Why  may  not  I, 
why  may  not  you  and  I  take  the  little  mamma  to  Paris 
and  let  the  best  skill  in  the  world  be  invoked  to  save  her 
from  sorrow?"  He,  too,  would  not,  after  her  failure,  say 
"blindness." 

She  looked  at  him  through  tears  that  threatened  to 
get  beyond  control,  afraid  to  trust  her  voice. 

"You  have  not  answered  me,"  he  said,  gently.  She 
shook  her  head. 

"I  cannot.  I  can  never  answer  you  as  I  would.  But 
it  cannot  be,  it  cannot  be!  If  that  course  were  necessary, 
we  would  have  gone  long  ago,  for,  while  we  are  poor, 
Norton  could  have  arranged  it — he  can  arrange  anything. 
But  Dr.  Campbell,  you  know,  is  famous  for  his  skill. 
He  has  even  been  called  to  Europe  in  consultation.  He 
says  there  is  no  cure,  but  care  of  the  general  health  may 
avert  the  blow  all  her  life.  And  so  we  watch  and  wait." 

"Still,"  he  urged,  "there  may  be  a  mistake.  And  the 
sea  voyage " 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  are  very,  very  kind,  but  it 
cannot  be." 

It  flashed  over  Edward  then  what  that  journey  would 


IN  THE  CRIMSON  MISTS  OF  SUNSET.  73 

have  been.  He,  with  that  sweet-faced  girl,  the  little  ma 
donna  of  his  memory,  and  the  patient  mother!  In  his 
mind  came  back  all  the  old  familiar  places;  by  his  side 
stood  this  girl,  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  her  eyes  upturned 
to  his. 

And  why  not!  A  thrill  ran  through  his  heart;  he  could 
take  his  wife  and  her  mother  to  Paris!  He  started 
violently  and  leaned  forward  in  the  boat,  his  glowing  face 
turned  full  upon  her,  with  an  expression  in  it  that  startled 
her. 

Then  from  it  the  color  died  away ;  a  ghastly  look  over 
spread  it.  He  murmured  aloud: 

"God  be  merciful!  It  cannot  be,"  She  smiled  piti 
fully. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  cannot  be.  But  God  is  merciful. 
We  trust  Him.  He  will  order  all  things  for  the  best!" 
Seeing  his  agitation  she  continued:  "Don't  let  it  distress 
you  so,  Mr.  Morgan.  It  may  all  come  out  happily.  See, 
the  skies  are  quite  clear  now;  the  clouds  all  gone!  I 
take  it  as  a  happy  augury!" 

Ashamed  to  profit  by  her  reading  of  his  feelings,  he 
made  a  desperate  effort  to  respond  to  her  new  mood. 
She  saw  the  struggle  and  aided  him.  But  in  that  hour 
the  heart  of  Mary  Montjoy  went  out  for  all  eternity  to  the 
man  before  her.  Change,  disaster,  calumny,  misfortune, 
would  never  shake  her  faith  and  belief  in  him.  He  had 
lost  in  the  struggle  of  the  preceding  night,  but  here  he 
had  won  that  which  death  only  could  end,  and  perhaps 
not  death. 

Slowly  they  ascended  the  hill  together,  both  silent  and 
thoughtful.  He  took  her  little  hand  to  help  her  up  the 
terraces,  and,  forgetting,  held  it  until,  at  the  gate,  she 
suddenly  withdrew  it  in  confusion  and  gazed  at  him  with 
startled  eyes. 

The  tall,  soldierly  form  of  the  colonel,  her  father,  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

"See,"  said  Edward,  to  relieve  her  confusion,  "one  of 
the  old  knights  guarding  the  castle!" 

And  then  she  called  out,  gayly: 

"Sir  knight,  I  bring  you  a  prisoner."  The  old  gentle 
man  laughed  and  entered  into  the  pleasantry. 


74  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Well,  he  might  have  surrendered  to  a  less  fair  captor! 
Enter,  prisoner,  and  proclaim  your  colors."  Edward 
started,  but  recovered,  and,  looking  up  boldly,  said: 

"An  honorable  knight  errant,  but  unknown  until  his 
vow  is  fulfilled."  They  both  applauded  and  the  supper 
bell  rang. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  OLD  SOUTH  VERSUS  THE  NEW. 

Edward  had  intended  returning  to  Ilexhurst  after  tea, 
but  every  one  inveighed  against  the  announcement.  Non 
sense!  The  roads  were  bad,  a  storm  was  possible,  the 
way  unfamiliar  to  him !  John,  the  stable  boy,  had  report 
ed  a  shoe  lost  from  the  horse!  And  besides,  Norton 
would  come  out  and  be  disappointed  at  having  missed 
him!  And  why  go?  Was  the  room  upstairs  not  com 
fortable?  He  should  have  another!  Was  the  breakfast 
hour  too  early?  His  breakfast  should  be  sent  to  his 
room! 

Edward  was  in  confusion.  It  was  his  first  collision  with 
the  genuine,  unanswerable  southern  hospitality  that  sur 
vives  the  wreck  of  all  things.  He  hesitated  and  explained 
and  explaining  yielded. 

Supper  over,  the  two  gentlemen  sat  upon  the  veranda, 
a  cool  breeze  wandering  in  from  the  western  rain  area 
and  rendering  the  evening  comfortable.  Mary  brought 
a  great  jar  of  delicious  tobacco,  home  raised,  and  a  dozen 
corn-cob  pipes,  and  was  soon  happy  in  their  evident  com 
fort.  As  she  held  the  lighter  over  Edward's  pipe  he  ven 
tured  one  glance  upward  into  her  face,  and  was  rewarded 
with  a  rare,  mysterious  smile.  It  was  a  picture  that 
clung  to  him  for  many  years;  the  girlish  face  and  tender 
brown  eyes  in  the  yellow  glare  of  the  flame,  the  little  hand 
lifted  in  his  service.  It  was  the  last  view  of  her  that  night, 
for  the  southern  girl,  out  of  the  cities,  is  an  early  retirer. 

"The  situation  is  somewhat  strained,"  said  the  colonel; 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  VERSUS  THE  NEW.  75 

they  had  reached  politics;  "there  is  a  younger  set  coming 
on  who  seem  to  desire  only  to  destroy  all  the,  old  order 
of  things.  They  have  had  the  'new  south'  dinged  into  their 
ears  until  they  have  come  to  believe  that  the  old  south 
holds  nothing  worth  retaining.  They  are  full  of  railroad 
schemes  to  rob  the  people  and  make  highways  for  tramps ; 
of  new  towns  and  booms,  of  colonization  schemes,  to 
bring  paupers  into  the  state  and  inject  the  socialistic  ele 
ment  of  which  the  north  and  west  are  heartily  tired. 
They  want  to  do  away  with  cotton  and  plant  the  land  in 
peaches,  plums,  grapes,"  here  he  laughed  softly,  "and 
they  want  to  give  the  nigger  a  wheeled  plow  to  ride  on. 
It  looks  as  if  the  whole  newspaper  fraternity  have  gone 
crazy  upon  what  they  call  intensive  and  diversified  farm 
ing.  Not  one  of  them  has  ever  told  me  what  there  is  can 
be  planted  that  will  sell  at  all  times  upon  the  market  and 
pay  labor  and  store  accounts  in  the  fall. 

"And  now  they  have  started  in  this  county  the  'no-fence' 
idea  and  are  about  to  destroy  our  cattle  ranges,"  contin 
ued  the  colonel,  excitedly.  "In  addition  to  these,  the 
farmers  have  some  of  them  been  led  off  into  a  'populist' 
scheme,  which  in  its  last  analysis  means  that  the  govern 
ment  shall  destroy  corporations  and  pension  farmers.  In 
national  politics  we  have,  besides,  the  silver  question  and 
the  tariff,  and  a  large  element  in  the  state  is  ripe  for 
republicanism!" 

"That  is  the  party  of  the  north,  I  believe,"  said  Edward. 

"Yes,  the  party  that  freed  the  negro  and  placed  the 
ballot  in  his  hands.  We  are  so  situated  here  that  practi 
cally  our  whole  issue  is  'white  against  black.'  We  can 
not  afford  to  split  on  any  question.  We  are  obliged  to 
keep  the  south  solid  even  at  the  expense  of  development 
and  prosperity.  The  south  holds  the  Saxon  blood  in 
trust.  Regardless  of  law,  of  constitution,  of  both  com 
bined,  we  say  it  is  her  duty  to  keep  the  blood  of  the  race 
pure  and  uncontaminated.  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that 
it  has  been  done  with  entire  success;  two  races  cannot 
exist  side  by  side  distinct.  But  the  Spaniards  kept  their 
blue  blood  through  centuries! 

"The  southern  families  will  always  be  pure  in  this  re 
spect;  they  are  tenderly  guarded,"  the  colonel  went  on. 


76  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Other  sections  are  in  danger.  The  white  negro  goes 
away  or  is  sent  away;  he  is  unknown;  he  is  changed 
and  finds  a  foothold  somewhere.  Then  some  day  a  fam 
ily  finds  in  its  folds  a  child  with  a  dark  streak  down  its 
spine — have  you  dropped  your  pipe?  The  cobs  really 
furnish  our  best  smokers,  but  they  are  hard  to  manage. 
Try  another — and  it  was  known  that  somewhere  back  in 
the  past  an  African  taint  has  crept  in." 

"You  astound  me,"  said  Edward,  huskily;  "is  that  an 
infallible  sign?" 

"Infallible,  or,  rather,  indisputable  if  it  exists.  But  its 
existence  under  all  circumstances  is  not  assured." 

"And  what,  Col.  Montjoy,  is  the  issue  between  you 
and  Mr.  Swearingen — I  understand  that  is  his  name — 
your  opponent  in  the  campaign  for  nomination?" 

"Well,  it  is  hard  to  say.  He  has  been  in  congress  sev 
eral  terms  and  thinks  now  he  sees  a  change  of  sentiment. 
He  has  made  bids  for  the  younger  and  dissatisfied  vote. 
I  think  you  may  call  it  the  old  south  versus  the  new — 
and  I  stand  for  the  old  south." 

"Where  does  your  campaign  open?  I  was  in  England 
once  during  a  political  campaign,  about  my  only  exper 
ience,  if  you  except  one  or  two  incipient  riots  in  Paris, 
and  I  would  be  glad  to  see  a  campaign  in  Georgia." 

"We  open  in  Bingham.  I  am  to  speak  there  day  after 
to-morrow  and  will  be  pleased  to  have  you  go  with  us. 
A  little  party  will  proceed  by  private  conveyance  from 
here — and  Norton  is  probably  detained  in  town  to-night 
by  this  matter.  The  county  convention  meets  that  day 
and  it  has  been  agreed  that  Swearingen  and  I  shall  speak 
in  the  morning.  The  convention  will  assemble  at  noon 
and  make  a  nomination.  In  most  counties  primary  elec 
tions  are  held." 

"I  shall  probably  not  be  able  to  go,  but  this  county  will 
afford  me  the  opportunity  I  desire.  By  the  way,  colonel, 
your  friends  will  have  many  expenses  in  this  campaign, 
will  they  not?  I  trust  you  will  number  me  among  them 
and  not  hesitate  to  call  upon  me  for  my  share  of  the 
necessary  fund.  I  am  a  stranger,  so  to  speak,  but  I  rep 
resent  John  Morgan  until  I  can  get  my  political  bearings 
accurately  adjusted."  The  colonel  was  charmed. 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  VERSUS  THE  NEW.  77 

"Spoken  like  John  himself!"  he  said.  "We  are  proud, 
sir,  to  claim  you  as  one  of  us.  As  to  the  expense,  unfor 
tunately,  we  have  to  rely  on  our  friends.  But  for  the  war, 
I  could  have  borne  it  all ;  now  my  circumstances  are  such 
that  I  doubt  sometimes  if  I  should  in  perfect  honor  have 
accepted  a  nomination.  It  was  forced  on  me,  however. 
My  friends  named  me,  published  the  announcement  and 
adjourned.  Before  heaven,  I  have  no  pleasure  in  it! 
I  have  lived  here  since  childhood,  barring  a  term  or  two 
in  congress  before  the  war  and  four  years  with  Lee  and 
Johnston,  and  my  people  were  here  before  me.  I  would 
be  glad  to  end  my  days  here  and  live  out  the  intervening 
ones  in  sight  of  this  porch.  But  a  man  owes  everything 
to  his  country." 

He  did  not  comment  upon  the  information;  at  that 
moment  there  was  heard  the  rumble  of  wheels.  Norton, 
accompanied  by  a  stranger,  alighted  from  a  buggy  and 
came  rapidly  up  the  walk.  The  colonel  welcomed  his 
son  with  the  usual  affection  and  the  stranger  was  intro 
duced  as  Mr.  Robley  of  an  adjoining  county.  The  men 
fell  to  talking  with  suppressed  excitement  over  the  polit 
ical  situation  and  the  climax  of  it  was  that  Robley,  a 
keen  manager,  revealed  that  he  had  come  for  $1,000  to 
secure  .the  county.  He  had  but  finished  his  information, 
when  Norton  broke  in  hurriedly: 

"We  know,  father,  that  this  is  all  outside  your  style  of 
politics,  and  I  have  told  Mr.  Robley  that  we  cannot  go 
into  any  bargain  and  sale  schemes,  or  anything  that  looks 
that  way.  We  will  pay  our  share  of  legitimate  expenses, 
printing,  bands,  refreshments  and  carnage  hire,  and  will 
not  inquire  too  closely  into  rates,  but  that  is  as  far " 

"You  are  right,  my  son!  If  I  am  nominated  it  must  be 
upon  the  ballots  of  my  friends.  I  shall  not  turn  a  hand 
except  to  lessen  their  necessary  expenses  and  to  put  our 
announcements  before  the  public.  I  am  sure  that  this  is 
all  that  Mr.  Robley  would  consent  to." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  that  gentleman.  And  then  he 
looked  helpless.  Edward  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the 
veranda,  ready  to  withdraw  from  hearing  if  the  conver 
sation  became  confidential.  Norton  was  excitedly  ex 
plaining  the  condition  of  affairs  in  Robley 's  county,  and 


78  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

that  gentleman  found  himself  at  leisure.  Passing  him 
Edward  attracted  his  attention. 

"You  smoke,  Mr.  Robley?"  He  offered  a  cigar  and 
nodded  toward  the  far  end  of  the  veranda.  "I  think  you 
had  better  let  Mr.  Montjoy  explain  matters  to  his  father," 
he  said.  Robley  joined  him. 

"How  much  do  you  need?"  said  Edward;  "the  outside 
figure,  I  mean.  In  other  words,  if  we  wanted  to  buy  the 
county  and  be  certain  of  getting  it,  how  much  would  it 
take?" 

"Twenty-five  hundred — well,  $3,000." 

"Let  the  matter  drop  here,  you  understand?  Col. 
Montjoy  is  not  in  the  trade.  I  am  acting  upon  my  own 
responsibility.  Call  on  me  in  town  to-morrow;  I  will 
put  up  the  money.  Now,  not  a  word.  We  will  go  back." 
They  strolled  forward  and  the  discussion  of  the  situation 
went  on.  Robley  grew  hopeful  and  as  they  parted  for  the 
night  whispered  a  few  words  to  Norton.  As  the  latter 
carried  the  lamp  to  Edward's  door,  he  said: 

"What  does  this  all  mean;  you  and  Robley " 

"Simply,"  said  Edward,  "that  I  am  in  my  first  political 
campaign  and  to  win  at  any  cost." 

Norton  looked  at  him  in  amazement  and  then  laughed 
aloud. 

"You  roll  high !    We  will  win  if  you  don't  fail  us." 

"Then  you  will  win."  They  shook  hands  and  parted 
Norton,  passing  his  sister's  room,  paused  in  thought 
knocked  lightly,  and  getting  no  reply,  went  to  bed.  Ed 
ward  turned  in,  not  to  sleep.  His  mind  in  the  silent 
hours  rehearsed  its  horrors.  He  arose  at  the  sound  of 
the  first  bell  and  left  for  the  city,  not  waiting  for  break 
fast. 


FEELING  THE  ENEMY.  79 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
FEELING  THE  ENEMY. 

Edward  Morgan  plunged  into  the  campaign  with  an 
energy  and  earnestness  that  charmed  the  younger  Mont- 
joy  and  astonished  the  elder.  Headquarters  were  opened, 
typewriters  engaged,  lists  of  prominent  men  and  party 
leaders  obtained  and  letters  written.  Col.  Mont  joy  was 
averse  to  writing  to  his  many  personal  friends  in  the 
district  anything  more  than  a  formal  announcement  of 
his  candidacy  over  his  own  signature. 

"That  is  all  right,  father,  but  if  you  intend  to  stick  to 
that  idea  the  way  to  avoid  defeat  is  to  come  down  now." 
But  the  old  gentleman  continued  to  use  his  own  form 
of  letter.  It  read: 

"My  Dear  Sir:  I  beg  leave  to  call  your  attention  to 
my  announcement  in  the  Journal  of  this  city,  under  date 
of  July  15,  wherein,  in  response  to  the  demands  of  friends, 
I  have  consented  to  the  use  of  my  name  in  the  nomina 
tion  for  congressman  to  represent  this  district.  With 
great  respect,  I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"Norton  L.  Montjoy." 

He  dictated  this  letter,  gave  the  list  to  the  typewriter, 
and  announced  that  when  the  letters  were  ready  he  would 
sign  them.  The  son  looked  at  him  quizzically: 

"Don't  trouble  about  that,  father.  You  must  leave 
this  office  work  to  us.  I  can  sign  your  name  better  than 
you  can.  If  you  will  get  out  and  see  the  gentlemen  about 
the  cotton  warehouses  you  can  help  us  wonderfully.  You 
can  handle  them  better  than  anybody  in  the  world."  The 
colonel  smiled  indulgently  on  his  son  and  went  off.  He 
was  proud  of  the  success  and  genius  of  his  one  boy,  when 
not  grieved  at  his  departure  from  the  old-school  dignity. 
And  then  Norton  sat  down  and  began  to  dictate  the  cor 
respondence,  with  the  list  to  guide  him. 

"Dear  Jim,"  he  began,  selecting  a  well-known  friend 
of  his  father,  and  a  companion  in  arms.  "You  have  prob- 


80  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

ably  noticed  in  the  Journal  the  announcement  of  my  can 
didacy  for  the  congressional  nomination.  The  boys  of 
the  old  'Fire-Eaters'  did  eat.  I  am  counting  on  you; 
you  stood  by  me  at  Seven  Pines,  Fredericksburg,  Chan- 
cellorsville  and  a  dozen  other  tight  places,  and  I  have  no 
fear  but  that  your  old  colonel  will  find  you  with  him  in  this 
issue.  It  is  the  old  south  against  the  riffraff  combination 
of  carpetbaggers,  scalawags  and  jaybirds  who  are  trying 
to  betray  us  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy !  My  opponent, 
Swearingen,  is  a  good  man  in  his  way,  but  in  devilish 
bad  company.  See  Lamar  of  Company  C,  Sims,  Ellis, 
Smith  and  all  the  old  guard.  Tell  them  I  am  making  the 
stand  of  my  life !  My  best  respects  to  the  madam  and  the 
grandchildren!  God  bless  you.  Do  the  best  you  can. 
Yours  fraternally,  N.  L.  Montjoy." 

"P.  S.  Arrange  for  me  to  speak  at  your  court  house 
some  day  soon.  Get  an  early  convention  called.  We 
fight  better  on  a  charge — old  Stonewall's  way. 

"N.  L.  M." 

This  letter  brought  down  the  house ;  the  house  in  this 
instance  standing  for  a  small  army  of  committeemen 
gathered  at  headquarters.  Norton  was  encouraged  to  try 
again. 

"The  Rev.  Andrew  Paton,  D.  D.— Dear  Andrew:  I 
am  out  for  congress  and  need  you.  Of  course  we  can't 
permit  you  to  take  your  sacred  robes  into  the  mire  of 
politics,  but,  Andrew,  we  were  boys  together,  before  you 
were  so  famous,  and  I  know  that  nothing  I  can  bring 
myself  to  ask  of  you  can  be  refused.  A  word  from  you  in 
many  quarters  will  help.  The  madam  joins  me  in  regard 
to  you  and  yours.  Sincerely,  N.  L.  Montjoy." 

"P.  S.  Excuse  this  typewritten  letter,  but  my  hand  is 
old,  and  I  cannot  wield  the  pen  as  I  did  when  we  put 
together  that  first  sermon  of  yours.  M." 

This  was  an  addendum  in  "the  colonel's  own  handwrit 
ing"  and  it  closed  with  "pray  for  me."  The  letter  was 


FEELING  THE  ENEMY.  81 

vociferously  applauded  and  passers-by  looked  up  in  the 
headquarters  windows  curiously.  These  addenda  in  the 
colonel's  own  handwriting  tickled  Norton's  fancy.  He 
played  upon  every  string  in  the  human  heart.  When  he 
got  among  the  masons  he  staggered  a  little,  but  managed 
to  work  in  something  about  "upright,  square  and  level." 
"If  I  could  only  have  got  a  few  signals  from  the  old 
gentleman,"  he  said,  gayly,  "I  would  get  the  lodges  out 
in  a  body." 

Norton  was  everywhere  during  the  next  ten  days.  He 
kept  four  typewriters  busy  getting  out  "personal"  letters, 
addressing  circulars  and  marking  special  articles  that  had 
appeared  in  the  papers.  One  of  his  sayings  that  afterward 
became  a  political  maxim  was :  "If  you  want  the  people 
to  help  you,  let  them  hear  from  you  before  the  election." 
And  in  this  instance  they  heard. 

Within  a  few  days  a  great  banner  was  stretched  across 
the  street  from  the  headquarters  window,  and  a  band 
wagon,  drawn  by  four  white  horses,  carried  a  brass  band 
and  flags  bearing  the  legend: 


"Montjoy  at  the  Court  House 
Saturday  Night." 


Little  boys  distributed  dodgers. 

Edward,  taking  the  cue,  entered  with  equal  enthusiasm 
into  the  comedy.  He  wanted  to  do  the  right  thing,  and 
he  had  formed  an  exaggerated  idea  of  the  influence  of 
money  in  political  campaigns.  He  hung  a  placard  at  the 
front  door  of  the  Montjoy  headquarters  that  read: 

"One  thousand  dollars  to  five  hundred  that  Montjoy 
is  nominated." 

He  placed  a  check  to  back  it  in  the  secretary's  hands. 
This  announcement  drew  a  crowd  and  soon  afterward  a 
quiet-appearing  man  came  in  and  said: 

"I  have  the  money  to  cover  that  bet.  Name  a  stake 
holder." 

One  was  named.  Edward  was  flushed  with  wine  and 
6 


82  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

enthused  by  the  friendly  comments  his  bold  wager  had 

drawn  out. 

"Make  it  $2,000  to  $1,000?"  he  asked  the  stranger. 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  "it  goes." 

"Make  it  $10,000  to  $5,000?"  said  Edward. 


"Ten  thousand  to  four  thousand?" 

"No!" 

"Ten  thousand  to  three  thousand?" 

"No!"  The  stranger  smiled  nervously  and,  saluting, 
withdrew.  The  crowd  cheered  until  the  sidewalk  was 
blockaded.  The  news  went  abroad:  "Odds  of  300  to 
100  have  been  offered  on  Montjoy,  and  no  takers." 

Edward's  bet  had  the  effect  of  precipitating  the  cam 
paign  in  the  home  county;  it  had  been  opening  slowly, 
despite  the  rush  at  the  Montjoy  headquarters.  The 
Swearingen  men  were  experienced  campaigners  and 
worked  more  by  quiet  organization  than  display.  Such 
men  know  when  to  make  the  great  stroke  in  a  campaign. 
The  man  who  had  attempted  to  call  young  Morgan's 
hand  had  little  to  do  with  the  management  of  the  Swear 
ingen  campaign,  but  was  engaged  in  a  speculation  of 
his  own,  acting  upon  a  hint. 

But  the  show  of  strength  at  the  Montjoy  headquarters 
was  at  once  used  by  the  Swearingen  men  to  stir  their 
friends  to  action,  lest  they  be  bluffed  out  of  the  fight. 
Rival  bands  were  got  out,  rival  placards  appeared  and 
handbills  were  thrown  into  every  yard. 

And  then  came  the  first  personalities,  but  directed  at 
Edward  only.  An  evening  paper  said  that  "A  late  citizen, 
after  half  a  century  of  honorable  service,  and  although 
but  recently  deceased,  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  betting 
upon  mundane  elections  by  proxy."  And  elsewhere:  "A 
certain  class  of  people  and  their  uncle's  money  are  soon 
divorced."  Many  others  followed  upon  the  same  line, 
clearly  indicating  Edward  Morgan,  and  with  street-corner 
talk  soon  made  him  a  central  figure  among  the  Montjoy 
forces.  Edward  saw  none  of  these  paragraphs,  nor  did 
he  hear  the  gossip  of  the  city. 

This  continued  for  days  ;  in  the  meantime  Edward  took 
Norton  home  with  him  at  night  and  generally  one  or  two 


FEELING  THE  ENEMY.  83 

others  accompanied  them.  Finally  it  came  to  be  settled 
that  Norton  and  Edward  were  old  friends,  and  the  friends 
of  Montjoy  senior  looked  on  and  smiled. 

The  other  side  simply  sneered,  swore  and  waited. 

Information  of  these  things  reached  Mary  Montjoy. 
Annie,  the  sister-in-law,  came  into  the  city  and  met  her 
cousin,  Amos  Royson,  the  wild  horseman  who  collided 
with  the  Montjoy  team  upon  the  night  of  Edward's  first 
appearance.  This  man  was  one  of  the  Swearingen  man 
agers.  His  relationship  to  Annie  Montjoy  gave  him 
entrance  to  the  family  circle,  and  he  had  been  for  two 
years  a  suitor  for  Mary's  hand. 

Royson  took  a  seat  in  the  vehicle  beside  his  cousin  and 
turned  the  horse's  head  toward  the  park.  Annie  Montjoy 
saw  that  he  was  in  an  ugly  mood,  and  divined  the  reason. 
She  possessed  to  a  remarkable  degree  the  power  of  mind- 
reading  and  she  knew  Amos  Royson  better  than  he  knew 
himself. 

"Tell  me  about  this  Edward  Morgan,  who  is  making 
such  a  fool  of  himself,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "He  is  injuring 
Col.  Mont  joy's  chances  more  than  we  could  ever  hope  to, 
and  is  really  the  best  ally  we  have!" 

She  smiled  as  she  looked  upon  him  from  under  the 
sleepy  lids.  "Why,  then,  are  you  not  pleased?" 

"Oh,  well,  you  know,  Annie,  the  unfortunate  fact  re 
mains  that  you  are  one  of  the  family.  I  hate  to  see  you 
mixed  up  in  this  matter  and  a  sharer  in  the  family's  down 
fall." 

"You  do  not  think  enough  of  me  to  keep  out  of  the 
way." 

"I  cannot  control  the  election,  Annie;  Swearingen  will 
be  elected  with  or  without  my  help.  But  you  know  my 
whole  future  depends  upon  Swearingen.  Who  is  Edward 
Morgan?" 

"Oh,  Edward  Morgan !  Well,  you  know,  he  is  old  John 
Morgan's  heir,  and  that  is  all  I  know;  but,"  and  she 
laughed  maliciously,  "he  is  what  Norton  calls  'a  rusher,' 
not  only  in  politics  but  elsewhere.  He  has  seen  Mary, 
and — now  you  know  why  he  is  so  much  interested  in  this 
election."  Amos  turned  fiercely  upon  her  and  involun- 


84  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

tarily  drew  the  reins  until  the  horse  stopped.  He  felt  the 
innuendo  and  forgot  the  thrust. 

"You  cannot  mean "  he  began,  and  then  paused, 

for  in  her  eyes  was  a  triumph  so  devilish,  so  malicious, 
that  even  he,  knowing  her  well,  could  not  bring  himself 
to  gratify  it.  He  knew  that  she  had  never  forgiven  him 
for  his  devotion  to  Mary. 

"Yes,  I  mean  it!  If  ever  two  people  were  suddenly, 
hopelessly,  foolishly  infatuated  with  each  other  that  same 
little  hypocritical  chit  and  this  stranger  are  the  two.  He 
is  simply  trying  to  put  his  intended  father-in-law  into 
congress.  Do  you  understand?" 

The  man's  face  was  white  and  only  with  difficulty  could 
he  guide  the  animal  he  was  driving.  She  continued,  with 
a  sudden  exhibition  of  passion:  "And  Mary!  Oh,  you 
should  just  hear  her  say  'Ilexhurst'!  She  will  queen  it 

out  there  with  old  Morgan's  money  and  heir,  and  we " 

she  laughed  bitterly,  "we  will  stay  out  yonder,  keep  a 
mule  boarding  house  and  nurse  sick  niggers — that  is  all 
it  amounts  to;  they  raise  corn  half  the  year  and  hire 
hands  to  feed  it  out  the  other  half;  and  the  warehouses 
get  the  cotton.  In  the  meantime,  I  am  stuck  away  out 
of  sight  with  my  children!"  Royson  thought  over  this 
outburst  and  then  said  gravely: 

"You  have  not  yet  answered  my  question.  Who  is 
Edward  Morgan — where  did  he  come  from?" 

"Go  ask  John  Morgan,"  she  said,  scornfully  and  mali 
ciously.  He  studied  long  the  painted  dashboard  in  front 
of  him,  and  then,  in  a  sort  of  awe,  looked  into  her  face : 

"What  do  you  mean,  Annie?"  She  would  not  turn 
back ;  she  met  his  gaze  with  determination. 

"Old  Morgan  has  educated  and  maintained  him  abroad 
all  his  life.  He  has  never  spoken  of  him  to  anybody. 
You  know  what  stories  they  used  to  tell  of  John  Morgan. 
Can't  you  see?  Challenged  to  prove  his  legal  right  to 
his  name  he  couldn't  do  it."  The  words  were  out.  The 
jealous  woman  took  the  lines  from  his  hands  and  said, 
sneeringly:  "You  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  Amos, 
by  your  driving,  and  attracting  attention.  Where  do 
you  want  to  get  out?  I  am  going  back  uptown."  He  did 
not  reply.  Dazed  by  the  fearful  hint  he  sat  looking  ahead. 


FEELING  THE  ENEMY.  85 

When  she  drew  rein  at  a  convenient  corner  he  alighted. 
There  was  a  cruel  light  in  his  gray  eyes. 

"Annie,"  he  said,  "the  defeat  of  Col.  Montjoy  lies  in 
your  information." 

"Let  it,"  she  exclaimed,  recklessly.  "He  has  no  more 
business  in  congress  than  a  child.  And  for  the  other  mat 
ter,  I  have  myself  and  my  children's  name  to  protect." 

And  yet  she  was  not  entirely  without  caution.  She 
continued: 

"What  I  have  told  you  is  a  mere  hint.  It  must  not 
come  back  to  me  nor  get  in  print."  She  drove  away. 
With  eyes  upon  the  ground  Royson  walked  to  his  office. 

Amos  Royson  was  of  the  new  south  entirely,  but  not 
its  best  representative.  His  ambition  was  boundless; 
there  was  nothing  he  would  have  left  undone  to  advance 
himself  politically.  His  thought  as  he  walked  back  to 
his  office  was  upon  the  words  of  his  cousin.  In  what 
manner  could  this  frightful  hint  be  made  effective  with 
out  danger  of  reaction?  At  this  moment  he  met  the  man 
he  was  plotting  to  destroy,  walking  rapidly  toward  the 
postoffice  with  Norton  Montjoy.  The  latter  saluted  him, 
gayly,  as  he  passed: 

"Hello,  Amos!  We  have  you  on  the  run,  my  boy!" 
Amos  made  no  reply  to  Norton,  nor  to  Edward's  con 
ventional  bow.  As  they  passed  he  noted  the  latter's  form 
and  poetical  face,  then  somewhat  flushed  with  excite 
ment,  and  seemed  to  form  a  mental  estimate  of  him. 

"Cold-blooded  devil,  that  fellow  Royson,"  said  Norton, 
as  he  ran  over  his  letters  before  mailing  them;  "stick  a 
knife  in  you  in  a  minute." 

But  Royson  walked  on.  Once  he  turned,  looked  back 
and  smiled  sardonically.  "They  are  both  in  a  bad  fix," 
he  said,  half-aloud.  "The  man  who  has  to  look  out  for 
Annie  is  to  be  pitied." 

At  home  Annie  gave  a  highly  colored  account  of  all 
she  had  heard  in  town  about  Edward,  made  up  chiefly  of 
boasts  of  friends  who  supposed  that  her  interest  in  Col. 
Montjoy's  nomination  was  genuine,  of  Norton's  report 
and  the  sneers  of  enemies,  including  Royson.  These  lost 
nothing  in  the  way  of  color  at  her  hands.  Mary  sought 


86  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

her  room  and  after  several  efforts  sealed  for  Edward  this 
letter: 

"You-  can  never  know  how  grateful  we  all  are  for  your 
interest  and  help,  but  our  gratitude  would  be  incomplete 
if  I  failed  to  tell  you  that  there  is  danger  of  injuring  your 
self  in  your  generous  enthusiasm.  You  must  not  forget 
that  papa  has  enemies  who  will  become  yours.  This  we 
would  much  regret,  for  you  have  so  much  need  of  friends. 
Do  not  put  faith  in  too  many  people,  and  come  out  here 
when  you  feel  the  need  of  rest.  I  cannot  write  much  that 
I  would  like  to  tell  you.  Your  friend, 

"Mary  Montjoy." 

"P.  S.  Amos  Royson  is  your  enemy  and  he  is  a  dan 
gerous  man." 

When  Edward  received  this,  as  he  did  next  day  by  the 
hand  of  Col.  Montjoy,  he  was  thrilled  with  pleasure  and 
then  depressed  with  a  sudden  memory.  That  day  he  was 
so  reckless  that  even  Norton  felt  compelled,  using  his 
expression,  "to  call  him  down." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  THE   SWORD. 

When  Royson  reached  his  office  he  quietly  locked  him 
self  in,  and,  lighting  a  cigar,  threw  himself  into  his  easy- 
chair.  He  recalled  with  carefulness  the  minutest  facts  of 
his  interview  with  Annie  Montjoy,  from  the  moment  he 
seated  himself  beside  her,  until  his  departure.  Having 
established  these  in  mind  he  began  the  course  of  reason 
ing  he  always  pursued  in  making  an  estimate  of  testi 
mony.  The  basis  of  his  cousin's  action  did  not  call  for 
much  attention ;  he  knew  her  well.  She  was  as  ambitious 
as  Lucifer  and  possessed  that  peculiar  defect  which  would 
explain  so  many  women  if  given  proper  recognition- 
lack  of  ability  to  concede  equal  merit  to  others.  They 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  THE  SWORD.  87 

can  admit  no  uninvited  one  to  their  plane;  not  even  an 
adviser.  They  demand  flattery  as  a  plant  demands  nitro 
gen,  and  cannot  survive  the  loss  of  attention. 

And,  reading  deeper,  Royson  saw  that  the  steadfast, 
womanly  soul  of  the  sister-in-law  had,  even  in  the  knowl 
edge  of  his  cousin,  overshadowed  hers  until  she  resented 
even  the  old  colonel's  punctilious  courtesy;  that  in  her 
heart  she  raged  at  his  lack  of  informality  and  accused 
him  of  resting  upon  the  young  girl.  If  she  had  been 
made  much  of,  set  up  as  a  divinity,  appealed  to  and  suf 
fered  to  rule,  all  would  have  been  fair  and  beautiful.  And 
then  the  lawyer  smiled  and  said  aloud  to  that  other  self, 
with  whom  he  communed:  "For  a  while."  Such  was  the 
woman. 

Long  he  sat,  studying  the  situation.  Once  he  arose 
and  paced  the  floor,  beating  his  fist  into  his  hand  and 
grinding  his  teeth. 

"Both  or  none!"  he  cried,  at  last.  "If  Montjoy  is  nom 
inated  I  am  shelved;  and  as  for  Mary,  there  have  been 
Sabine  women  in  all  ages." 

That  night  the  leaders  of  the  opposition  met  in  secret 
caucus,  called  together  by  Royson.  When,  curious  and 
attentive,  they  assembled  in  his  private  office,  he  ad 
dressed  them : 

"I  have,  gentlemen,  to-day  found  myself  in  a  very 
embarrassing  position ;  a  very  painful  one.  You  all  know 
my  devotion  to  our  friend ;  I  need  not  say,  therefore,  that 
here  to-night  the  one  overpowering  cause  of  the  action 
which  I  am  about  to  take  is  my  loyalty  to  him.  To-day, 
from  a  source  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  state  here,  I  was 
placed  in  possession  of  a  fact  which,  if  used,  practically 
ends  this  campaign.  You  must  none  of  you  express  a 
doubt,  nor  must  any  one  question  me  upon  the  subject. 
The  only  question  to  be  discussed  is,  shall  we  make  use 
of  the  fact — and  how?"  He  waited  a  moment  until  the 
faces  of  the  committee  betrayed  their  deep  interest. 

"Whom  do  you  consider  in  this  city  the  most  powerful 
single  man  behind  the  movement  to  nominate  Montjoy?" 

"Morgan,"  said  one,  promptly.  It  was  their  unanimous 
judgment. 

"Correct!     This  man,  with  his  money  and  zeal,  has 


88  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

made  our  chances  uncertain  if  not  desperate,  and  this 
man,"  he  continued,  excitedly,  "who  is  posing  before  the 
public  and  offering  odds  of  three  to  one  against  us  with 
old  Morgan's  money,  is  not  a  white  man !" 

He  had  leaned  over  the  table  and  concluded  his  re 
marks  in  almost  a  whisper.  A  painful  silence  followed, 
during  which  the  excited  lawyer  glared  inquiringly  into 
the  faces  turned  in  horror  upon  him.  "Do  you  under 
stand?"  he  shouted  at  last.  They  understood. 

A  southern  man  takes  a  hint  upon  such  a  matter  read 
ily.  These  men  sat  silent,  weighing  in  their  minds  the 
final  effect  of  this  announcement.  Royson  did  not  give 
them  long  to  consider. 

"I  am  certain  of  this,  so  certain  that  if  you  think  best 
I  will  publish  the  fact  to-morrow  and  assume  the  whole 
responsibility."  There  was  but  little  doubt  remaining 
then.  But  the  committee  seemed  weighed  upon  rather 
than  stirred  by  the  revelation;  they  spoke  in  low  tones 
to  each  other.  There  was  no  note  of  triumph  in  any  voice. 
They  were  men. 

Presently  the  matter  took  definite  shape.  An  old  man 
arose  and  addressed  his  associates: 

"I  need  not  say,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  astonished  by 
this  information,  and  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  do  say  I 
regret  that  it  seems  true.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  am 
opposed  to  its  use.  It  is  a  very  difficult  matter  to  prove. 
Mr.  Royson's  informant  may  be  mistaken,  and  if  proof 
was  not  forthcoming  a  reaction  would  ruin  our  friend." 
No  one  replied,  although  several  nodded  their  heads.  At 
length  Royson  spoke: 

"The  best  way  to  reach  the  heart  of  this  matter  is  to 
follow  out  in  your  minds  a  line  of  action.  Suppose  in 
a  speech  I  should  make  the  charge — what  would  be  the 
result?" 

"You  would  be  at  once  challenged!"    Royson  smiled. 

"Who  would  bear  the  challenge?" 

"One  of  the  Montjoys  would  be  morally  compelled  to." 

"Suppose  I  convince  the  bearer  that  a  member  of  his 
family  was  my  authority?"  Then  they  began  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  depth  of  the  plot.  One  answered: 

"He  would  be  obliged  to  withdraw!" 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  THE  SWORD.  89 

"Exactly!  And  who  else  after  that  would  take  Mont- 
joy's  place?  Or  how  could  Montjoy  permit  the  duel  to 
go  on?  And  if  he  did  find  a  fool  to  bring  his  challenge, 
I  could  not,  for  the  reason  given  in  the  charge,  meet  his 
principal!" 

"A  court  of  honor  might  compel  you  to  prove  your 
charge,  and  then  you  would  be  in  a  hole.  That  is,  unless 
you  could  furnish  proof." 

"And  still,"  said  Royson,  "there  would  be  no  duel,  be 
cause  there  would  be  no  second.  And  you  understand, 
gentlemen,"  he  continued,  smiling,  "that  all  this  would 
not  postpone  the  campaign.  Before  the  court  of  honor 
could  settle  the  matter  the  election  would  have  been  held. 
You  can  imagine  how  that  election  would  go  when  it  is 
known  that  Montjoy's  campaign  manager  and  right-hand 
man  is  not  white.  This  man  is  hail-fellow-well-met 
with  young  Montjoy;  a  visitor  in  his  home  and  is  spend 
ing  money  like  water.  What  do  you  suppose  the  country 
will  say  when  these  facts  are  handled  on  the  stump?  Col. 
Montjoy  is  ignorant  of  it,  we  know,  but  he  will  be  on  the 
defensive  from  the  day  the  revelation  is  made. 

"I  have  said  my  action  is  compelled  by  my  loyalty  to 
Swearingen,  and  I  reiterate  it,  but  we  owe  something  to 
the  community,  to  the  white  race,  to  good  morals  and 
posterity.  And  if  I  am  mistaken  in  my  proofs,  gentlemen, 
why,  then,  I  can  withdraw  my  charge.  It  will  not  affect 
the  campaign  already  over.  But  I  will  not  have  to  with 
draw." 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  another  gentleman, 
rising  and  speaking  emphatically,  "this  is  a  matter  upon 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  I  do  not  feel  called  to 
vote!  I  cannot  act  without  full  information!  The  fact 
is,  I  am  not  fond  of  such  politics!  If  Mr.  Royson  has 
proofs  that  he  cannot  use  publicly  or  here,  the  best  plan 
would  be  to  submit  them  to  Col.  Montjoy  and  let  him 
withdraw,  or  pull  off  his  lieutenant."  He  passed  out  and 
several  with  him.  Royson  argued  with  the  others,  but 
one  by  one  they  left  him.  He  was  bursting  with  rage. 

"I  will  determine  for  myself!"  he  said;  "the  victory 
shall  rest  in  me!" 

Then  came  the  speech  of  the  campaign  at  the  court 


90  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

house.  The  relations  of  Col.  Montjoy,  his  family  friends, 
people  connected  with  him  in  the  remotest  degree  by 
marriage,  army  friends,  members  of  the  horticultural  and 
agricultural  societies,  masons,  members  of  the  bar,  mer 
chants,  warehousemen  and  farmers  generally,  and  a  large 
sprinkling  of  personal  and  political  enemies  of  Swear- 
ingen  made  up  the  vast  crowd. 

In  the  rear  of  the  hall,  a  smile  upon  his  face,  was 
Amos  Royson.  And  yet  the  secret  glee  in  his  heart,  the 
knowledge  that  he,  one  man  in  all  that  throng,  by  a 
single  sentence  could  check  the  splendid  demonstration 
and  sweep  the  field,  was  clouded.  It  came  to  him  that 
no  other  member  of  the  Montjoy  clan  was  a  traitor.  No 
where  is  the  family  tie  so  strong  as  in  the  south,  and  only 
the  power  of  his  ambition  could  have  held  him  aloof. 
Swearingen  had  several  times  represented  the  district  in 
congress;  it  was  his  turn  when  the  leader  moved  on. 
This  had  been  understood  for  years  by  the  political  public. 
In  the  meantime  he  had  been  state's  attorney  and  there 
were  a  state  senatorship,  a  judgeship  and  possibly  the 
governorship  to  be  grasped.  He  could  not  be  expected 
to  sacrifice  his  career  upon  the  altar  of  kinship  remote. 
Indeed,  was  it  not  the  duty  of  Montjoy  to  stand  aside 
for  the  sake  of  a  younger  man?  Was  it  not  true  that  a 
large  force  in  his  nomination  had  been  the  belief  that 
Swearingen's  right-hand  man  would  probably  be  silenced 
thereby?  It  had  been  a  conspiracy. 

These  thoughts  ran  through  his  mind  as  he  stood 
watching  the  gathering. 

On  the  stage  sat  Edward  Morgan,  a  prominent  figure 
and  one  largely  scanned  by  the  public;  and  Royson  saw 
his  face  light  up  and  turn  to  a  private  box;  saw  his  smile 
and  bow.  A  hundred  eyes  were  turned  with  his,  and  dis 
covered  there,  half  concealed  by  the  curtains,  the  face  of 
Mary  Montjoy.  The  public  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  had  previously  been  forced  on  him. 

Over  Royson's  face  surged  a  wave  of  blood ;  a  muttered 
oath  drew  attention  to  him  and  he  changed  his  position. 
He  saw  the  advancing  figure  of  Gen.  Evan  and  heard  his 
introductory  speech.  The  morning  paper  said  it  was  the 


THE  OLD  SOUTH  DRAWS  THE  SWORD.  91 

most  eloquent  ever  delivered  on  such  an  occasion;  and 
all  that  the  speaker  said  was: 

''Fellow-citizens,  I  have  the  honor  to  introduce  to  you 
this  evening  Col.  Norton  Montjoy.  Hear  him." 

His  rich  bass  voice  rolled  over  the  great  audience;  he 
extended  his  arm  toward  the  orator  of  the  evening,  and 
retired  amid  thunders  of  applause. 

Then  came  Col.  Montjoy. 

The  old  south  was  famous  for  its  oratory.  It  was 
based  upon  personal  independence,  upon  family  pride  and 
upon  intellect  unhampered  by  personal  toil  in  uncon 
genial  occupations;  and  lastly  upon  sentiment.  Climate 
may  have  entered  into  it;  race  and  inheritance  undoubt 
edly  did.  The  southern  orator  was  the  feature  of  con 
gressional  displays,  and  back  in  congressional  archives 
lie  orations  that  vie  with  the  best  of  Athens  and  of  Rome. 
But  the  flavor,  the  spectacular  effects,  linger  only  in  the 
memory  of  the  rapidly  lessening  number  who  mingled 
deeply  in  ante-bellum  politics.  No  pen  could  have  pre 
served  this  environment  faithfully. 

So  with  the  oration  that  night  in  the  opening  of  the 
Montjoy  campaign.  It  was  not  transmissible.  Only  the 
peroration  need  be  reproduced  here: 

"God  forbid!"  he  said  in  a  voice  now  husky  with  emo 
tion  and  its  long  strain,  "God  forbid  that  the  day  shall 
come  when  the  south  will  apologize  for  her  dead  heroes! 
Stand  by  your  homes;  stand  by  your  traditions;  keep 
our  faith  in  the  past  as  bright  as  your  hopes  for  the 
future!  No  stain  rests  upon  the  honor  of  your  fathers! 
Transmit  their  memories  and  their  virtues  to  posterity 
as  its  best  inheritance!  Defend  your  homes  and  firesides, 
remembering  always  that  the  home,  the  family  circle,  is 
the  fountain  head  of  good  government!  Let  none  enter 
there  who  are  unclean.  Keep  it  the  cradle  of  liberty  and 
the  hope  of  the  English  race  on  this  continent,  the  shrine 
of  religion,  of  beauty,  of  purity!" 

He  closed  amid  a  tumult  of  enthusiasm.  Men  stood  on 
chairs  to  cheer;  ladies  wept  and  waved  their  handker 
chiefs,  and  then  over  all  arose  the  strange  melody  that  no 
southern  man  can  sit  quiet  under.  "Dixie"  rung  out 
amid  a  frenzy  of  emotion.  Veterans  hugged  each  other. 


92  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

The  old  general  came  forward  and  clasped  hands  with 
his  comrade,  the  band  changing  to  "Auld  Lang  Syne." 
People  crowded  on  the  stage  and  outside  the  building 
the  drifting  crowd  filled  the  air  with  shouts. 

The  last  man  to  rise  from  his  seat  was  Edward  Mor 
gan.  Lost  in  thought,  his  face  lowered,  he  sat  until  some 
one  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  called  him  back  to 
the  present.  And  out  in  the  audience,  clinging  to  a  post 
to  resist  the  stream  of  humanity,  passing  from  the  aisles, 
his  eyes  strained  forward,  heedless  of  the  banter  and 
jeers  poured  upon  him,  Royson  watched  as  best  he 
could  every  shade  upon  the  stranger's  face.  A  cry  burst 
from  his  lips.  "It  was  true!"  he  said,  and  dashed  from 
the  hall. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"IN    ALL    THE    WORLD,    NO    FAIRER     FLOWER     THAN 

THIS!" 

The  city  was  in  a  whirl  on  election  day;  hacks  and 
carriages  darted  here  and  there  all  day  long,  bearing 
flaming  placards  and  hauling  voters  to  the  polls.  Bands 
played  at  the  Montjoy  headquarters  and  everything  to 
comfort  the  inner  patriot  was  on  hand. 

Edward  had  taken  charge  of  this  department  and  at 
his  own  expense  conducted  it.  He  was  the  host.  All 
kinds  of  wines  and  liquors  and  malt  drinks,  a  constantly 
replenished  lunch,  that  amounted  to  a  banquet,  and 
cigars,  were  at  all  hours  quickly  served  by  a  corps  of 
trained  waiters.  In  all  their  experience,  old  election 
stagers  declared  never  had  this  feature  of  election  day 
been  so  complete.  It  goes  without  saying  that  Montjoy's 
headquarters  were  crowded  and  that  a  great  deal  of  the 
interest  which  found  expression  in  the  streets  was  manu 
factured  there. 

It  was  a  fierce  struggle;  the  Swearingen  campaign  in 
the  county  had  been  conducted  on  the  "still-hunt"  plan^ 
and  on  this  day  his  full  strength  was  polled.  It  was  Mont- 


"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER."        93 

joy's  home  county,  and  if  it  could  be  carried  against  him, 
the  victory  was  won  at  the  outset. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Montjoy  people  sought  for  the 
moral  effect  of  an  overwhelming  victory.  There  was  an 
expression  of  general  relief  in  the  form  of  cheers,  when 
the  town  clocks  struck  5  and  the  polls  windows  fell. 
Anxiety  followed,  and  then  bonfires  blazed,  rockets  ex 
ploded  and  all  night  long  the  artillery  squad  fired  salutes. 
Montjoy  had  won  by  an  unlooked-for  majority  and  the 
vote  of  the  largest  county  was  secure. 

Edward  had  resolutely  refused  to  think  upon  the  dis 
covery  unfolded  to  him.  With  reckless  disregard  for 
the  future  he  had  determined  to  bury  the  subject  until 
the  arrival  of  Virdow.  But  there  are  ghosts  that  will  not 
come  down  at  the  bidding;,  and  so  in  the  intervals  of 
sleep,  of  excitement,  of  politics,  the  remembrance  of  the 
fearful  fate  that  threatened  him  came  up  with  all  the  force 
and  terror  of  a  new  experience. 

Ilexhurst  was  impossible  to  him  alone  and  he  had  held 
to  Norton  as  long  as  he  could.  There  was  to  be  a  few 
days'  rest  after  the  home  election,  and  the  younger  Mont 
joy  seized  this  opportunity  to  run  home  and,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it,  "get  acquainted  with  the  family."  Edward, 
without  hesitation,  accepted  his  invitation  to  go  with 
him.  They  had  become  firm  friends  now  and  Edward 
stood  high  in  the  family  esteem.  Reviewing  the  work 
that  had  led  up  to  Col.  Montjoy's  magnificent  opening 
and  oration,  all  generously  conceded  that  he  had  been 
the  potent  factor. 

It  was  not  true,  in  fact;  the  younger  Montjoy  had  been 
the  genius  of  the  hour,  but  Edward's  aid  and  money  had 
been  necessary.  The  two  men  were  received  as  conquer 
ing  heroes.  As  she  held  his  hand  in  hers  old  Mrs.  Mont 
joy  said: 

"You  have  done  us  a  great  service,  Mr.  Morgan,  and 
we  cannot  forget  it,"  and  Mary,  shy  and  happy,  had 
smiled  upon  him  and  uttered  her  thanks.  There  was  one 
discordant  note,  the  daughter-in-law  had  been  silent  until 
all  were  through. 

"And  I  suppose  I  am  to  thank  you,  Mr.  Morgan,  that 
Norton  has  returned  alive.  I  did  not  know  you  were 


94  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

such  high  livers  over  at  Hexhurst,"  she  smiled,  mali 
ciously.  "Were  you  not  afraid  of  ghosts?" 

Edward  looked  at  her  with  ill-disguised  hatred.  For 
the  first  time  he  realized  fully  that  he  was  dealing  with  a 
dangerous  enemy.  How  much  did  she  know?  He  could 
make  nothing  of  that  serenely  tranquil  face.  He  bowed 
only.  She  was  his  friend's  wife. 

But  he  was  not  at  ease  beneath  her  gaze  and  readily 
accepted  Mary's  invitation  to  ride.  She  was  going  to 
carry  a  note  from  her  father  to  a  neighbor,  and  the  chance 
of  seeing  the  country  was  one  he  should  not  neglect. 
They  found  a  lazy  mule  and  ancient  country  buggy  at  the 
door.  He  thought  of  the  outfit  of  the  sister-in-law. 
"Annie  has  a  pony  phaeton  that  is  quite  stylish,"  said 
Mary,  laughingly,  as  they  entered  the  old  vehicle,  "but 
it  is  only  for  town  use;  this  is  mine  and  papa's!" 

"Certainly  roomy  and  safe,"  he  said.  She  laughed  out 
right. 

"I  will  remember  that;  so  many  people  have  tried  to 
say  something  comforting  about  my  turnout  and  failed; 
but  it  does  well  enough."  They  were  off  then,  Edward 
driving  awkwardly.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
drawn  the  reins  over  a  mule. 

"How  do  you  make  it  go  fast?"  he  asked,  finally,  in 
despair. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  answered,  "we  don't  try.  We  know  the 
mule."  Her  laugh  was  infectious. 

They  traveled  the  public  roads,  with  their  borders  of 
wild  grape,  crossed  gurgling  streams  under  festoons  of 
vines  and  lingered  in  shady  vistas  of  overhanging  boughs. 
Several  times  they  boldly  entered  private  grounds  and 
passed  through  back  yards  without  hailing,  and  at  last 
they  came  to  their  destination. 

There  were  two  huge  stone  posts  at  the  entrance,  with 
carved  balls  of  granite  upon  them.  An  iron  gate  of  Moor 
ish  fretwork  hung  between.  A  thick  tangle  of  muscadine 
and  Cherokee  roses  led  off  from  them  right  and  left, 
hiding  the  trail  of  the  long-vanished  rail  fence.  In  front 
was  an  avenue  of  twisted  cedars,  and,  closing  the  per 
spective,  a  glimpse  of  white  columns  and  green  blinds. 

The  girl's  face  was  lighted  with  smiles;  it  was  for  her 


"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER."        95 

a  new  experience,  this  journeying  with  a  man  alone; 
his  voice  melodious  in  her  hearing;  his  eyes  exchanging 
with  hers  quick  understandings,  for  Edward  was  happy 
that  morning — happy  in  his  forgetfulness.  He  had  thrown 
off  the  weight  of  misery  successfully,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  there  was  really  a  smile  in  his  heart.  It 
was  the  dream  of  an  hour;  he  would  not  mar  it.  Her 
voice  recalled  him. 

"I  have  always  loved  'The  Cedars/  It  wears  such  an 
air  of  gentility  and  refinement.  It  must  be  that  something 
of  the  lives  gone  by  cling  to  these  old  places." 

"Whose  is  it?"    She  turned  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  this  is  where  we  were  bound — Gen.  Evan's.  I 
have  a  note  for  him." 

"Ah!"  The  exclamation  was  one  of  awe  rather  than 
wonder.  She  saw  him  start  violently  and  grow  pale. 
"Evan?"  he  said,  with  emotion. 

"You  know  him?" 

"Not  I."  He  felt  her  questioning  gaze  and  looked  into 
her  face.  "That  is,  I  have  been  introduced  to  him,  only, 
and  I  have  heard  him  speak."  After  a  moment's  reflec 
tion:  "Sometime,  perhaps,  I  shall  tell  you  why  for  the 
moment  I  was  startled."  She  could  not  understand  his 
manner.  Fortunately  they  had  arrived  at  the  house. 
Confused  still,  he  followed  her  up  the  broad  steps  to  the 
veranda  and  saw  her  lift  the  antique  knocker. 

"Yes,  ma'am,  de  general's  home;  walk  in,  ma'am;  find 
him  right  back  in  the  library."  With  that  delightful  lack 
of  formality  common  among  intimate  neighbors  in  the 
south,  Mary  led  the  way  in.  She  made  a  pretty  picture 
as  she  paused  at  the  door.  The  sun  was  shining  through 
the  painted  window  and  suffused  her  form  with  roseate 
light. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  The  old  man  rose  with  a  great 
show  of  welcome  and  came  forward.  "May  I  come  in? 
How  d'ye  do,  Mary,  God  bless  you,  child;  yes,  come  clear 
in,"  he  said,  laughing,  and  bestowed  a  kiss  upon  her  lips. 
At  that  moment  he  caught  sight  of  the  face  of  Edward, 
who  stood  behind  her,  pale  from  the  stream  of  light  that 
came  from  a  white  crest  in  the  window.  The  two  men 


96  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

gazed  steadily  into  each  other's  eyes  a  moment  only.  The 
girl  began: 

"This  is  Mr.  Morgan,  general,  who  has  been  such  a 
friend  to  father." 

The  rugged  face  of  the  old  soldier  lighted  up,  he  took 
the  young  man's  hands  in  both  of  his  and  pressed  them 
warmly. 

"I  have  already  met  Mr.  Morgan.  The  friend  of  my 
friend  is  welcome  to  'The  Cedars.' "  He  turned  to  move 
chairs  for  them. 

The  face  of  the  young  man  grew  white  as  he  bowed 
gravely.  There  had  been  a  recognition,  but  no  voice 
spoke  from  the  far-away  past  through  his  lineaments  to 
that  lonely  old  man.  During  the  visit  he  was  distrait  and 
embarrassed.  The  courtly  attention  of  his  host  and  his 
playful  gallantry  with  Mary  awoke  no  smile  upon  his  lips. 
Somewhere  a  barrier  had  fallen  and  the  waters  of  mem 
ory  had  rushed  in.  Finally  he  was  forced  to  arouse  him 
self. 

"John  Morgan  was  a  warm  friend  of  mine  at  one 
time,"  said  the  old  general.  "How  was  he  related  to  you?" 

"Distantly,"  said  Edward  quietly.  "I  was  an  orphan, 
and  indebted  to  him  for  everything." 

"An  eccentric  man,  but  John  had  a  good  heart — errors 
like  the  rest  of  us,  of  course."  The  general's  face  grew 
sad  for  the  moment,  but  he  rallied  and  turned  the  conver 
sation  to  the  political  campaign. 

"A  grand  speech  that,  Mr.  Morgan ;  I  have  never  heard 
a  finer,  and  I  have  heard  great  speakers  in  my  day!  Our 
district  will  be  well  and  honorably  represented  in  con 
gress.  Now,  our  little  friend  here  will  go  to  Washington 
and  get  her  name  into  the  papers." 

"No,  indeed.  If  papa  wins  I  am  going  to  stay  with 
mamma.  I  am  going  to  be  her  eyes  as  well  as  her  hands. 
Mamma  would  not  like  the  city." 

"And  how  is  the  little  mamma?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  so  well  and  her  eyes  trouble 
her  very  much." 

"What  a  sweet  woman  she  is!  I  can  never  forget  the 
night  Norton  led  her  to  the  altar.  I  have  never  seen  a 
fairer  sight — until  now,"  he  interpolated,  smiling  and  sa- 


"IN  ALL  THE  WORLD  NO  FAIRER  FLOWER."        9? 

luting  Mary  with  formal  bow.  "She  had  a  perfect  figure 
and  her  walk  was  the  exposition  of  grace."  Mary  sur 
veyed  him  with  swimming  eyes.  She  went  up  and  kissed 
him  lightly.  He  detained  her  a  moment  when  about  to 
take  her  departure. 

"You  are  a  fortunate  man,  Morgan.  In  all  the  world 
you  will  find  no  rarer  flower  than  this.  I  envy  you  your 
ride  home.  Come  again,  Mary,  and  bring  Mr.  Morgan 
with  you."  She  broke  loose  from  him  and  darted  off  in 
confusion.  He  had  guessed  her  secret  and  well  was  it 
that  he  had! 

The  ride  home  was  as  a  dream.  The  girl  was  excited 
and  full  of  life  and  banter  and  Edward,  throwing  off  his 
sadness,  had  entered  into  the  hour  of  happiness  with  the 
same  abandon  that  marked  his  campaign  with  Norton. 

But  as  they  entered  the  long  stretch  of  wood  through 
which  their  road  ran  to  her  home,  Edward  brought  back 
the  conversation  to  the  general. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary,  "he  lives  quite  alone,  a  widower,  but 
beloved  by  every  one.  It  is  an  old,  sad  story,  but  his 
daughter  eloped  just  before  the  war  broke  out  and  went 
abroad.  He  has  never  heard  from  her,  it  is  supposed." 

"I  have  heard  the  fact  mentioned,"  said  Morgan,  "and 
also  that  she  was  to  have  married  my  relative." 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  a  great  sor 
row  to  the  general,  and  a  girl  who  could  give  up  such  a 
man  must  have  been  wrong  at  heart  or  infatuated." 

"Infatuated,  let  us  hope." 

"That  is  the  best  explanation,"  she  said  gently. 

He  was  driving;  in  a  few  moments  he  would  arrive  at 
the  house.  Should  he  tell  her  the  history  of  Gerald  and 
let  her  clear,  honest  mind  guide  him?  Should  he  tell  her 
that  Fate  had  made  him  the  custodian  of  the  only  being 
in  the  world  who  had  a  right  to  that  honorable  name 
when  the  veteran  back  yonder  found  his  last  camp  and 
crossed  the  river  to  rest  in  the  shade  with  the  immortal 
Jackson?  He  turned  to  her  and  she  met  his  earnest  gaze 
with  a  winning  smile,  but  at  the  moment  something  in  his 
life  cried  out.  The  secret  was  as  much  his  duty  as  the 
ward  himself  and  to  confess  to  her  his  belief  that  Gerald 
was  the  son  of  Marion  Evan  was  to  confess  to  himself 


98  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

that  he  was  the  son  of  the  octoroon.  He  would  not  Her 
smile  died  away  before  the  misery  in  his  face. 

"You  are  ill,"  she  said  in  quick  sympathy. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  faintly;  "yes  and  no.  The  loss  of 

sleep — excitement — your  southern  sun "  The  world 

grew  black  and  he  felt  himself  falling.  In  the  last  moment 
of  his  consciousness  he  remembered  that  her  arm  was 
thrown  about  him  and  that  in  response  to  her  call  for  help 
negroes  from  the  cotton  fields  came  running. 

He  opened  his  eyes.  They  rested  upon  the  chintz  cur 
tains  of  the  room  upstairs,  from  the  window  of  which  he 
had  heard  her  voice  calling  the  chickens.  Some  one 
was  bathing  his  forehead ;  there  were  figures  gliding  here 
and  there  across  his  vision.  He  turned  his  eyes  and  saw 
the  anxious  face  of  Mrs.  Montjoy  watching  him. 

"What  is  it?"     He  spoke  in  wonder. 

"Hush,  now,  my  boy;  you  have  been  very  ill;  you  must 
not  talk!"  He  tried  to  lift  his  hand.  It  seemed  made  of 
lead  and  not  connected  with  him  in  any  way.  Gazing 
helplessly  upon  it,  he  saw  that  it  was  thin  and  white — the 
hand  of  an  invalid. 

"How  long?"  he  asked,  after  a  rest.  The  slight  effort 
took  his  strength. 

"Three  weeks."  Three  weeks!  This  was  more  than 
he  could  adjust  in  the  few  working  sections  of  his  brain. 
He  ceased  to  try  and  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BEYOND  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DOUBT. 

It  had  been  brain  fever.  For  ten  days  Edward  was 
helpless,  but  under  the  care  of  the  two  loving  women 
he  rapidly  recovered.  The  time  came  when  he  could  sit 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening  upon  the  veranda  and  listen  to 
the  voices  he  had  learned  to  love — for  he  no  longer  dis 
guised  the  truth  from  himself.  The  world  held  for  him 
but  one  dream,  and  through  it  and  in  the  spell  of  his  first 


BEYOND  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DOUBT.  99 

home  life  the  mother  became  a  being  to  be  reverenced. 
She  was  the  fulfilled  promise  of  the  girl,  all  the  tender 
experiences  of  life  were  pictured  in  advance  for  him  who 
should  win  her  hand  and  heart. 

But  it  was  only  a  dream.  During  the  long  hours  of 
the  night  as  he  lay  wakeful,  with  no  escape  from  himself, 
he  thought  out  the  situation  and  made  up  his  mind  to 
action.  He  would  go  to  Col.  Montjoy  and  confess  the 
ignorance  of  his  origin  that  overwhelmed  him  and  then 
he  would  provide  for  his  ward  and  go  away  with  Virdow 
to  the  old  world  and  the  old  life. 

The  mental  conclusion  of  his  plan  was  a  species  of  set 
tlement.  It  helped  him.  Time  and  again  he  cried  out, 
when  the  remembrance  came  back  to  him,  but  it  was  the 
honorable  course  and  he  would  follow  it.  He  would  go 
away. 

The  hours  of  his  convalescence  were  the  respite  he 
allowed  himself.  Day  by  day  he  said :  "I  will  go  to-morr 
row."  In  the  morning  it  was  still  "to-morrow." 
And  when  he  finally  made  his  announcement  he  was 
promptly  overruled.  Col.  Montjoy  and  Norton  were 
away,  speaking  and  campaigning.  All  primaries  had 
been  held  but  two.  The  colonel's  enemies  had  conceded 
to  him  of  the  remaining  counties  the  remote  one.  The 
other  was  a  county  with  a  large  population  and  cast  four 
votes  in  the  convention.  It  was  the  home  of  Swearingen, 
but,  as  frequently  happens,  it  was  the  scene  of  the  candi 
date's  greatest  weakness.  There  the  struggle  was  to  be 
titanic.  Both  counties  were  needed  to  nominate  Montjoy. 

The  election  took  place  on  the  day  of  Edward's  depart 
ure  for  Ilexhurst.  That  evening  he  saw  a  telegram  an 
nouncing  that  the  large  county  had  given  its  vote  to 
Montjoy  by  a  small  majority.  The  remote  county  had 
but  one  telegraph  office,  and  that  at  a  way  station  upon 
its  border.  Little  could  be  heard  from  it,  but  the  public 
conceded  Col.  Montjoy's  nomination,  since  there  had 
been  no  doubt  as  to  this  county.  Edward  hired  a  horse, 
put  a  man  upon  it,  sent  the  news  to  the  two  ladies  and 
then  went  to  his  home. 

He  found  awaiting  him  two  letters  of  importance.  One 
from  Virdow,  saying  he  would  sail  from  Havre  on  the 


100  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

25th;  that  was  twelve  days  previous.  He  was  therefore 
really  due  at  Ilexhurst  then.  The  other  was  a  letter 
he  had  written  to  Abingdon  soon  after  his  first  arrival, 
and  was  marked  "returned  to  writer."  He  wondered  at 
this.  The  address  was  the  same  he  had  used  for 
years  in  his  correspondence.  Although  Abingdon  was 
frequently  absent  from  England,  the  letters  had  always 
reached  him.  Why,  then,  was  this  one  not  forwarded? 
He  put  it  aside  and  ascertained  that  Virdow  had  not  ar 
rived  at  the  house. 

It  was  then  8  o'clock  in  the  evening.  By  his  order  a 
telephone  had  been  placed  in  the  house,  and  he  at  once 
rung  up  the  several  hotels.  Virdow  was  found  to  be  at 
one  of  these,  and  he  succeeded  in  getting  that  distin 
guished  gentleman  to  connect  himself  with  the  American 
invention  and  explained  to  him  the  situation. 

"Take  any  hack  and  come  at  once,"  was  the  message 
that  concluded  their  conversation,  and  Virdow  came !  In 
the  impulsive  continental  style,  he  threw  himself  into  Ed 
ward's  arms  when  the  latter  opened  the  door  of  the  can 
riage. 

Slender,  his  thin  black  clothes  hanging  awkwardly  upon 
him,  his  trousers  too  short,  the  breadth  of  his  round  Ger 
man  face,  the  knobs  on  his  shining  bald  forehead  exag 
gerated  by  the  puffy  gathering  of  the  hair  over  his  ears, 
his  candid  little  eyes  shining  through  the  round,  double- 
power  glasses,  his  was  a  figure  one  had  to  know  for  a  long 
time  in  order  to  look  upon  it  without  smiling. 

Long  the  two  sat  with  their  cigars  and  ran  over  the  old 
days  together.  Then  the  professor  told  of  wondrous  ex 
periments  in  sound,  of  the  advance  of  knowledge  into 
the  regions  of  psychology,  of  the  marvels  of  heredity.  His 
old  great  theme  was  still  his  ruling  passion.  "If  the 
mind  has  no  memory,  then  much  of  the  phenomena  of  life 
is  worse  than  bewildering.  Prove  its  memory,"  he  was 
wont  to  say,  "and  I  will  prove  immortality  through  that 
memory." 

It  was  the  same  old  professor.  He  was  up  now  and 
every  muscle  working  as  he  struggled  and  gesticulated, 
and  wrote  invisible  hieroglyphics  in  the  air  about  him  and 


BEYOND  THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DOUBT.     101. 


made  geometrical  figures  with  palms  and  fingers.     But 
the  professor  had  advanced  in  speculation. 

"The  time  will  come,  my  young  friend,"  he  said  at  last, 
"when  the  mind  will  give  us  its  memories  complete.  We 
will  learn  the  secrets  of  creation  by  memory.  In  its  per 
fection  we  will  place  a  man  yonder  and  by  vibration  get 
his  mind  memory  to  work;  theoretically  he  will  first  write 
of  his  father  and  then  his  grandfather,  describing  their 
mental  lives.  He  will  go  back  along  the  lines  of  his  an 
cestry.  He  will  get  into  Latin,  then  Greek,  then  Hebrew, 
then  Chaldean,  then  into  cuneiform  inscriptions,  then  into 
figure  representation  He  will  be  an  artist  or  a  musician 
or  sculptor,  and  possibly  all  if  the  back  trail  of  his  mem 
ory  crosses  such  talents.  "Ay,"  he  continued,  enthusias 
tically,  "lost  nations  will  live  again.  The  portraits  of  our 
ancestors  will  hang  in  view  along  the  corridors  of  all 
times!  This  will  come  by  vibratory  force,  but  how?" 

Edward  leaned  forward,  breathless  almost  with  emo 
tion. 

14 You  say  the  time  is  come;  what  has  been  done?" 

"Little  and  much!    The  experiments " 

"Tell  me,  in  all  your  experiments,  have  you  known 
where  a  child,  separated  from  a  parent  since  infancy,  with 
out  aid  of  description,  or  photograph,  or  information  de 
rived  from  a  living  person,  could  see  in  memory  or  imag 
ination  the  face  of  that  parent,  see  it  with  such  distinct 
ness  as  to  enable  him,  an  artist,  to  reproduce  it  in  all  per 
fection?" 

The  professor  wiped  his  glasses  nervously  and  kept  his 
gaze  upon  his  questioner. 

"Never." 

"Then,"  said  Edward,  "you  have  crossed  the  ocean  to 
some  purpose!  I  have  known  such  an  instance  here  in 
this  house.  The  person  is  still  here !  You  know  me,  my 
friend,  and  you  do  not  know  me.  To  you  I  was  a  rich 
young  American,  with  a  turn  for  science  and  speculation. 
You  made  me  your  friend  and  God  bless  you  for  it,  but 
you  did  not  know  all  of  that  mystery  which  hangs  over 
my  life  never  to  be  revealed  perhaps  until  the  millennium 
of  science  you  have  outlined  dawns  upon  us.  The  man 
who  educated  me,  who  enriched  me,  was  not  my  parent 


10?  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

or  relative;  he  was  my  guardian.  He  has  made  me  the 
guardian  of  a  frail,  sickly  lad  whose  mystery  is,  or  was, 
as  complete  as  mine.  Teach  us  to  remember."  The  words 
burst  from  him.  They  held  the  pent-up  flood  that  had 
almost  wrecked  his  brain. 

Rapidly  he  recounted  the  situation,  leaving  out  the 
woman's  story  as  to  himself.  Not  to  his  Savior  would  he 
confess  that. 

And  then  he  told  how,  following  his  preceptor's  hints 
about  vibration,  he  had  accidentally  thrown  Gerald  into 
a  trance;  its  results,  the  second  experiment,  the  drawing 
and  the  woman's  story  of  Gerald's  birth. 

During  this  recital  the  professor  never  moved  his  eyes 
from  the  speakers  face. 

"You  wish  to  know  what  I  think  of  it?  This:  I  have 
but  recently  ventured  the  proposition  publicly  that  all 
ideal  faces  on  the  artist's  canvas  are  mind  memories. 
Prove  to  me  anew  your  results  and  if  I  establish  the 
reasonableness  of  my  theory  I  will  have  accomplished 
enough  to  die  on." 

"In  your  opinion,  then,  this  picture  that  Gerald  drew 
is  a  mind  memory?" 

"Undoubtedly,  from  the  information  as  given." 

"And  if  we  can  produce  under  these  rare  circumstances 
those  faces,  could  we  not  produce  others  in  the  same  line 
of  succession,  supposing  Gerald  to  have  descended  from 
one  of  these  women — a  grandparent,  for  example?" 

"Undoubtedly.  But  you  will  perceive  that  the  more 
distant,  the  older  the  experience,  we  may  say,  the  less 
likelihood  of  accuracy." 

"It  would  depend,  then,  you  think,  upon  the  clearness 
of  the  original  impression?" 

"That  is  true!  The  vividness  of  an  old  impression  may 
also  outshine  a  new  one." 

"And  if  this  young  man  recalls  the  face  of  a  woman, 
whom  we  believe  it  possible — nay,  probable — is  his  moth 
er,  and  then  the  face  of  one  we  know  to  be  her  father,  as 
a  reasonable  man,  would  you  consider  the  story  of  this 
negro  woman  substantiated  beyond  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt?" 

"Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt." 


"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  103 

"We  will  try,"  said  Edward,  and  then,  after  a  moment's 
silence:  "He  is  shy  of  strangers  and  you  may  find  it  dim- 
cult  to  get  acquainted  with  him.  After  you  have  suc 
ceeded  in  gaining  his  confidence  we  will  settle  upon  a 
way  to  proceed.  One  word  more,  he  is  a  victim  of  mor 
phia.  Did  I  tell  you  that?" 

"No,  but  I  guessed  it." 

"You  have  known  such  men  before,  then?" 

"I  have  studied  the  proposition  that  opium  may  be  a 
power  to  effect  what  we  seek,  and,  in  connection  with  it, 
have  studied  the  hospitals  that  make  a  specialty  of  such 
cases." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  presently  Edward  said: 

"Will  you  say  good-night  now?" 

"Good-night."  The  professor  gazed  about  him.  "How 
was  it  you  used  to  say  good-night,  Edward?  Old  cus 
toms  are  good.  It  is  not  possible  that  the  violin  has  been 
lost."  He  smiled  and  Edward  got  his  instrument  and 
played.  He  knew  the  old  man's  favorites ;  the  little  'folk- 
melodies  of  the  Rhine  country,  bits  of  love  songs,  mostly, 
around  which  the  loving  players  of  Germany  have  woven 
so  many  beautiful  fancies.  And  in  the  playing  Edward 
himself  was  quieted. 

The  light  from  the  hall  downstairs  streamed  out  along 
the  gravel  walk,  and  in  the  glare  was  a  man  standing  with 
arms  folded  and  head  bent  forward.  A  tall  woman  came 
and  gently  laid  her  hand  upon  him.  He  started  violently, 
tossed  his  arms  aloft  and  rushed  into  the  darkness.  She 
waited  in  silence  a  moment  and  then  slowly  followed  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"IP  I  MEET  THE  MAN!" 

When  Edward  opened  the  morning  paper,-  which  he 
did  while  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  professor,  who  had 
wandered  away  before  breakfast,  he  was  shocked  by  the 
announcement  of  Montjoy's  defeat.  The  result  of  the 
vote  in  the  remote  county  had  been  secured  by  horseback 


104  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

service  organized  by  an  enterprising  journal,  and  tele 
graphed.  The  official  returns  were  given. 

Already  the  campaign  had  drifted  far  into  the  past  with 
him;  years  seemed  to  have  gone  by  when  he  arose  from 
the  sick-bed  and  now  it  scarcely  seemed  possible  that  he, 
Edward  Morgan,  was  the  same  man  who  labored  among 
the  voters,  shouted  himself  hoarse  and  kept  the  headquar 
ters  so  successfully.  It  must  have  been  a  dream. 

But  Mary!  That  part  was  real.  He  wrote  her  a  few 
lines  expressing  his  grief. 

And  then  came  the  professor,  with  his  adventure!  He 
had  met  a  young  man  out  making  photographs  and  had 
interested  him  with  descriptions  of  recent  successful  at 
tempts  to  photograph  in  colors.  And  then  they  had  gone 
to  the  wing-room  and  examined  the  young  man's  results 
from  efforts  to  produce  pictures  upon  living  substances. 
"He  has  some  of  the  most  original  theories  and  ideas 
upon  the  subject  I  have  heard,"  said  the  German.  "Not 
wild  beyond  the  possibilities  of  invention,  however,  and 
I  am  not  sure  but  that  he  has  taught  me  a  lesson  in  com 
mon  sense.  'Find  how  nature  photographs  upon  living 
tissue,'  said  the  young  man,  'and  when  you  have  reduced 
your  pictures  to  the  invisible  learn  to  re-enlarge  them; 
perhaps  you  will  learn  to  enlarge  nature's  invisibles.' 

"He  has  discovered  that  the  convolutions  of  the  human 
brain  resemble  an  embryo  infant  and  that  the  new  map 
which  indicates  the  nerve  lines  centering  in  the  brain 
from  different  parts  of  the  body  shows  them  entering 
the  corresponding  parts  of  the  embryo.  He  lingers  upon 
the  startling  idea  that  the  nerve  is  a  formative  organ,  and 
that  by  sensations  conveyed,  and  by  impressions,  it  ac 
tually  shapes  the  brain.  When  sensations  are  identical 
and  persistent  they  establish  a  family  form.  The  brain  is 
a  bas-relief  composite  picture,  shaped  by  all  the  nerves. 
Theoretically  a  man's  brain  carefully  removed,  photo 
graphed  and  enlarged  ought  to  show  the  outlines  of  a 
family  form,  with  all  the  modifications. 

"You  will  perceive  that  he  is  working  along  hereditary 
lines  and  not  psychologic.  And  I  am  not  sure  but  that  in 
this  he  is  pursuing  the  wisest  course,  heredity  being  the 
urimer." 


"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  105 

"You  believe  he  has  made  a  new  discovery,  then?" 

"As  to  that,  no.  The  speculative  mind  is  tolerant.  It 
accepts  nothing  that  is  not  proved;  it  rejects  nothing  that 
has  not  been  disproved.  The  original  ideas  in  most  dis 
coveries  in  their  crude  forms  were  not  less  wild  than  this. 
All  men  who  observe  are  friends  of  science." 

The  incident  pleased  Edward.  To  bring  the  professor 
and  Gerald  together  he  had  feared  would  be  difficult. 
Chance  and  the  professor's  tact  had  already  accomplished 
this  successfully. 

"I  will  leave  you  and  Gerald  to  get  thoroughly  ac 
quainted.  When  you  have  learned  him  you  can  study 
him  best.  I  have  business  of  importance." 

He  at  once  went  to  the  city  and  posted  his  letter.  Nor 
ton's  leave  had  been  exhausted  and  he  had  already  depart 
ed  for  New  York. 

At  the  club  and  at  the  almost  forsaken  headquarters  of 
the  Montjoy  party  all  was  consternation  and  regret.  The 
fatal  overconfidence  in  the  backwoods  county  was  set 
tled  upon  as  the  cause  of  the  disaster.  And  yet  why  should 
that  county  have  failed  them?  Two  companies  of  Evan's 
old  brigade  were  recruited  there;  he  had  been  assured 
by  almost  every  prominent  man  in  the  county  of  its  vote. 
And  then  came  the  crushing  blow. 

The  morning  paper  had  wired  for  special  reports  and 
full  particulars,  and  at  12  o'clock  an  extra  was  being  cried 
upon  the  streets.  Everybody  bought  the  paper;  the  street 
cars,  the  hotels,  the  clubs,  the  street  corners,  were  throng 
ed  with  people  eagerly  reading  the  announcement.  Under 
triple  head  lines,  which  contained  the  words  "Fraud"  and 
"Slander"  and  "Treachery,"  came  this  article,  which  Ed 
ward  read  on  the  street: 

"The  cause  of  the  fatal  slump-off  of  Col.  Montjoy's 
friends  in  this  county  was  a  letter  placed  in  circulation 
here  yesterday  and  industriously  spread  to  the  remotest 
voting  places.  It  was  a  letter  from  Mr.  Amos  Royson  to 
the  Hon.  Thomas  Brown  of  this  county.  Your  corre 
spondent  has  secured  and  herewith  sends  a  copy: 

"'My  Dear  Sir:  In  view  of  the  election  about  to  be 
held  in  your  county,  I  beg  to  submit  the  following  facts: 


106  SONS   AND    FATHERS. 

Against  the  honor  and  integrity  of  Col.  Montjoy  nothing 
can  be  urged,  but  it  is  known  here  so  positively  that  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  state,  and  authorize  you  to  use  it,  that  the 
whole  Montjoy  movement  is  in  reality  based  upon  an 
effort  to  crush  Swearingen  for  his  opposition  to  certain 
corporation  measures  in  congress,  and  which  by  reason 
of  his  position  on  certain  committees,  he  threatens  with 
defeat!  To  this  end  money  has  been  sent  here  and  is 
being  lavishly  expended  by  a  tool  of  the  corporation. 
Added  to  this  is  the  fact  that  the  man  chosen  for  the  busi 
ness  is  one  calling  himself  Edward  Morgan,  the  natural 
son  of  a  late  eccentric  bachelor  lawyer  of  this  city.  The 
mother  of  this  man  is  an  octoroon,  who  now  resides  with 
him  at  his  home  in  the  suburbs.  It  is  certain  that  these 
facts  are  not  known  to  the  people  who  have  him  in  tow, 
but  they  are  easy  of  substantiation  when  necessary.  We 
look  to  you  and  your  county  to  save  the  district.  We 
were  "done  up"  here  before  we  were  armed  with  this  in 
formation.  Respectfully  yours,  Amos  Royson.' 

"Thousands  of  these  circulars  were  printed  and  yes 
terday  put  in  the  hands  of  every  voter.  Col.  Montjoy's 
friends  were  taken  by  surprise  and  their  enthusiasm  chill 
ed.  Many  failed  to  vote  and  the  county  was  lost  by  twen 
ty-three  majority.  Intense  excitement  prevails  here 
among  the  survivors  of  Evan's  brigade,  who  feel  them 
selves  compromised." 

Then  followed  an  editorial  denouncing  the  outrage 
and  demanding  proofs.  It  ended  by  stating  that  the  lim 
ited  time  prevented  the  presentation  of  interviews  with 
Royson  and  Morgan,  neither  of  whom  could  be  reached 
by  telephone  after  the  news  was  received. 

There  are  moments  when  the  very  excess  of  danger 
calms.  Half  the  letter,  the  political  lie  alone,  would  have 
enraged  Edward  Morgan  beyond  expression.  The  at 
tack  upon  his  blood  was  too  fierce  an  assault.  He  could 
not  realize  nor  give  expression  to  his  feeling.  In  fact,  he 
was  stunned.  He  looked  up  to  find  himself  in  front  of  the 
office  of  Ellison  Eldridge.  Turning  abruptly  he  ascended 
the  steps;  the  lawyer  was  reading  the  article  as  he  ap 
peared,  but  would  have  laid  aside  the  paper. 


"IP  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  107 

"Finish,"  said  Edward,  curtly;  "it  is  upon  that  publica 
tion  I  have  come  to  advise  with  you."  He  stood  at  the 
window  while  the  other  read,  and  there  as  he  waited  a 
realization  of  the  enormity  of  the  blow,  its  cowardliness, 
its  cruelty,  grew  upon  him  slowly.  He  had  never  contem 
plated  publicity;  he  had  looked  forward  to  a  life  abroad, 
with  this  wearing  mystery  forever  gnawing  at  his  heart, 
but  publication  and  the  details  and  the  apparent  truth!  It 
was  horrible!  And  to  disprove  it — how?  The  minutes 
passed!  Would  the  man  behind  him  never  finish  what  he 
himself  had  devoured  in  three  minutes?  He  looked  back; 
Eldridge  was  gazing  over  the  paper  into  space,  his  face 
wearing  an  expression  of  profound  melancholy.  He  had 
uttered  no  word  of  denunciation;  he  was  evidently  not 
even  surprised. 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Edward,  excitedly;  "you  believe 
it — you  believe  it!"  Seizing  the  paper,  he  dashed  from 
the  room,  threw  himself  into  a  hack  and  gave  the  order 
for  home. 

And  half  an  hour  after  he  was  gone  the  lawyer  sat  as 
he  left  him,  thinking. 

Edward  found  a  reporter  awaiting  him. 

"You  have  the  extra,  I  see,  Mr.  Morgan,"  said  he; 
"may  I  ask  what  you  will  reply  to  it?" 

"Nothing!"  thundered  the  desperate  man. 

"Will  you  not  say  it  is  false?" 

Edward  went  up  to  him.  ''Young  man,  there  are  mo 
ments  when  it  is  dangerous  to  question  people.  This  is 
one  of  them!"  He  opened  the  door  and  stood  waiting. 
Something  in  his  face  induced  the  newspaper  man  to  take 
his  leave.  He  said  as  he  departed:  "If  you  write  a  card 
we  shall  be  glad  to  publish  it."  The  sound  of  the  closing 
door  was  the  answer  he  received. 

Alone  and  locked  in  his  room,  Edward  read  the  devilish 
letter  over  and  over,  until  every  word  of  it  was  seared  into 
his  brain  forever.  It  could  not  be  denied  that  more  than 
once  in  his  life  the  possibility  of  his  being  the  son  of  John 
Morgan  had  suggested  itself  to  his  mind,  but  he  had  in 
variably  dismissed  it.  Now  it  came  back  to  him  with  the 
force  almost  of  conviction.  Had  the  truth  been  stated  at 
last?  It  was  the  only  explanation  that  fitted  the  full  cir- 


108  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

cumstances  of  his  life — and  it  fitted  them  all.  It  was  true 
and  known  to  be  true  by  at  least  one  other.  Eldridge's 
legal  mind,  prejudiced  in  his  favor  by  years  of  association 
with  his  benefactor,  had  been  at  once  convinced;  and  if 
the  statement  made  so  positively  carried  conviction  to 
Eldridge  himself,  to  his  legal  friend,  how  would  the  great 
sensational  public  receive  it? 

It  was  done,  and  the  result  was  to  be  absolute  and 
eternal  ruin  for  Edward  Morgan.  Such  was  the  conclu 
sion  forced  upon  him. 

Then  there  arose  in  mind  the  face  of  the  one  girl  he 
remembered.  He  thought  of  the  effect  of  the  blow  upon 
her.  He  had  been  her  guest,  her  associate.  The  family 
had  received  him  with  open  arms.  They  must  share  the 
odium  of  his  disgrace,  and  for  him  now  what  course  was 
left?  Flight!  To  turn  his  back  upon  all  the  trouble  and 
go  to  his  old  life,  and  let  the  matter  die  out! 

And  then  came  another  thought.  Could  any  one  prove 
the  charge? 

He  was  in  the  dark;  the  cards  were  held  with  their 
backs  to  him.  Suppose  he  should  bring  suit  for  libel, 
what  could  he  offer?  His  witness  had  already  spoken  and 
her  words  substantiated  the  charge  against  him.  Not  a 
witness,  not  a  scrap  of  paper,  was  to  be  had  in  his  de 
fense.  A  libel  suit  would  be  the  rivet  in  his  irons  and  he 
would  face  the  public,  perhaps  for  days,  and  be  openly 
the  subject  of  discussion.  It  was  impossible,  but  he  could 
fight. 

The  thought  thrilled  him  to  the  heart.  She  should  see 
that  he  was  a  man !  He  would  not  deal  with  slander  suits, 
with  newspapers;  he  would  make  the  scoundrel  eat  his 
words  or  he  would  silence  his  mouth  forever.  The  man 
soul  was  stirred;  he  no  longer  felt  the  humiliation  that 
had  rendered  him  incapable  of  thought.  The  truth  of  the 
story  was  not  the  issue;  the  injury  was  its  use,  false  or 
true.  He  strode  into  Gerald's  room  and  broke  into  the 
experiments  of  the  scientists,  already  close  friends. 

"You  have  weapons  here.  Lend  me  one;  the  American 
uses  the  revolver,  I  believe?" 

Gerald  looked  at  him  in  astonishment,  but  he  was  in 
terested. 


"IF  I  MEET  THE  MAN!"  109 

"Here  is  one;  can  you  shoot?" 

"Badly;  the  small  sword  is  my  weapon." 

"Then  let  me  teach  you."  Gerald  was  a  boy  now; 
weapons  had  been  his  hobby  years  before. 

"Wait,  let  me  fix  you  a  target!"  He  brushed  a  chalk 
drawing  from  a  blackboard  at  the  end  of  the  room  and 
stood,  crayon  in  hand.  "What  would  you  prefer  to  shoot 
at,  a  tree,  a  figure " 

"A  figure!" 

Gerald  rapidly  sketched  the  outlines  of  a  man  with 
white  shirt  front  and  stepped  aside.  Five  times  the  man 
with  the  weapon  sighted  and  fired.  The  figure  was  not 
touched.  Gerald  was  delighted.  He  ran  up,  took  the 
pistol  and  reloaded  it  and  fired  twice  in  quick  succession. 
Two  spots  appeared  upon  the  shirt  front;  they  were  just 
where  the  lower  and  center  shirt  studs  would  have  been. 

"You  are  an  artist,  I  believe,"  he  said  to  Edward. 

The  latter  bowed  his  head.  "Now,  professor,  I  will 
show  you  one  of  the  most  curious  experiments  in  physics, 
the  one  that  explains  the  chance  stroke  of  billiards  done 
upon  the  spur  of  the  moment;  the  one  rifle  shot  of  a 
man's  life,  and  the  accurately  thrown  stone.  Stand  here," 
he  said  to  Edward,  "and  follow  my  directions  closely.  Re 
member,  you  are  a  draftsman  and  are  going  to  outline 
that  figure  on  the  board.  Draw  it  quickly  with  your  pis 
tol  for  a  pen,  and  just  as  if  you  were  touching  the  board. 
Say  when  you  have  finished  and  don't  lower  the  pistol. 
Edward  drew  as  directed. 

"It  is  done,"  he  said. 

"You  have  not  added  the  upper  stud.     Fire!" 

An  explosion  followed;  a  spot  appeared  just  over  the 
heart. 

"See !"  shouted  Gerald ;  "a  perfect  aim ;  the  pistol  was  on 
the  stud  when  he  fired,  but  beginners  always  pull  the 
muzzle  to  the  right,  and  let  the  barrel  fly  up.  The  secret 
is  this,  professor,"  he  continued,  taking  a  pencil  and  be 
ginning  to  draw,  "the  concentration  of  attention  is  so 
perfect  that  the  hand  is  a  part  of  the  eye.  An  artist  who 
shoots  will  shoot  as  lie  draws,  well  or  badly.  Now,  no 
man  drawing  that  figure  will  measure  to  see  where  the 


110  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

stud  should  be;  he  would  simply  put  the  chalk  spot  in  the 
right  place." 

Edward  heard  no  more;  loading  the  pistol  he  had  de 
parted.    "If  I  meet  the  man !"  he  said  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN. 

The  search  for  Royson  was  unavailing.  His  deter 
mined  pursuer  tried  his  office  door;  it  was  locked.  He 
walked  every  business  street,  entered  every  restaurant 
and  billiard  saloon,  every  hotel  lobby.  The  politician  was 
not  to  be  found.  He  himself  attracted  widespread  atten 
tion  wherever  he  went.  Had  he  met  Royson  he  would 
have  killed  him  without  a  word,  but  as  he  walked  he  did 
a  great  deal  of  thinking.  He  had  no  friend  in  the  city. 
The  nature  of  this  attack  was  such  that  few  people  would 
care  to  second  him.  The  younger  Montjoy  was  away 
and  he  was  unwilling  to  set  foot  in  the  colonel's  house 
again.  Through  him,  Edward  Morgan,  however  inno 
cently  it  might  be,  had  come  the  fatal  blow. 

He  ran  over  the  list  of  acquaintances  he  had  formed 
among  the  younger  men.  They  were  not  such  as  pleased 
him  in  this  issue,  for  a  strong,  clear  head,  a  man  of  good 
judgment  and  good  balance,  a  determined  man,  was 
needed. 

Then  there  came  to  his  memory  the  face  of  one  whom 
he  had  met  at  supper  his  first  night  in  town — the  quiet, 
dignified  Barksdale.  He  sought  this  man's  office.  Barks- 
dale  was  the  organizer  of  a  great  railroad  in  process  of 
construction.  His  reception  of  Edward  was  no  more  nor 
less  than  would  have  been  accorded  under  ordinary  cir 
cumstances.  Had  he  come  on  the  day  before  he  would 
have  been  greeted  as  then. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Morgan?  Be  seated,  sir."  This 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  Then,  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 
His  manner  affected  Edward  in  the  best  way;  he  began 
to  feel  the  business  atmosphere. 


HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN.  Ill 

"I  have  called,  Mr.  Barksdale,  upon  a  personal  matter 
and  to  ask  your  assistance.  I  suppose  you  have  read  to 
day's  extra?" 

"I  have." 

"My  first  action,  after  fully  weighing  the  intent  and 
effect  of  that  infamous  publication,"  said  Edward,  "was 
to  seek  and  kill  the  author.  For  this  purpose  I  have 
searched  the  town.  Royson  is  not  to  be  found.  I  am 
so  nearly  a  stranger  here  that  I  am  forced  to  come  to 
my  acquaintances  for  assistance,  and  now  I  ask  that  you 
will  advise  me  as  to  my  next  proceeding." 

"Demand  a  retraction  and  apology  at  once!" 

"And  if  it  is  refused?" 

"Challenge  him!" 

"If  he  refuses  to  fight?" 

"Publish  him.    That  is  all  you  can  do." 

"Will  you  make  the  demand  for  me — will  you  act  for 
me?" 

Barksdale  reflected  a  moment  and  then  said:  "Do  not 
misunderstand  my  hesitation;  it  is  not  based  upon  the, 
publication,  nor  upon  unwillingness  to  serve  you.  I  am 
considering  the  complications  which  may  involve  others, 
I  must,  in  fact,  consult  others  before  I  can  reply.  In  th* 
meantime  will  you  be  guided  by  me?" 

"I  will." 

"You  are  armed  and  contemplating  a  very  unwise  act 
Leave  your  weapon  here  and  take  a  hack  home  and  re 
main  there  until  I  call.  It  is  now  3:30  o'clock.  I  will  be, 
there  at  8.  If  I  do  not  act  for  you  I  will  suggest  a  friend, 
for  this  matter  should  not  lie  over-night.  But  under  no 
circumstances  can  I  go  upon  the  field;  my  position  here 
involves  interests  covering  many  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  invested  funds,  which  I  have  induced.  Dueling  is 
clearly  out  of  vogue  in  this  country  and  clearly  illegal. 
For  the  president  of  a  railroad  to  go  publicly  into  a  duel 
and  deliberately  break  the  law  would  lessen  public  confi 
dence  in  the  north  in  both  him  and  his  business  character 
and  affect  the  future  of  his  enterprise,  the  value  of  its 
stocks  and  bonds.  You  admit  the  reasonableness  of  this, 
do  you  not?" 


112  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"I  do.  There  is  my  weapon!  I  will  expect  you  at  8. 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Barksdale." 

The  hours  wore  away  slowly  at  home.  Edward  studied 
his  features  in  the  cheval  glass;  he  could  not  find  in  them 
the  slightest  resemblance  to  the  woman  in  the  picture. 
He  had  not  erred  in  that.  The  absence  of  any  portrait 
of  John  Morgan  prevented  his  making  a  comparison 
there.  He  knew  from  descriptions  given  by  Eldridge 
that  he  was  not  very  like  him  in  form  or  in  any  way  that 
he  could  imagine,  but  family  likeness  is  an  elusive  fact. 
Two  people  will  resemble  each  other,  although  they  may 
differ  in  features  taken  in  detail. 

He  went  to  Gerald's  room,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse. 
Gerald  was  demonstrating  one  of  his  theories  concerning 
mind  pictures  and  found  in  the  professor  a  smiling  and 
tolerant  listener. 

He  was  saying:  "Now,  let  us  suppose  that  from  youth 
up  a  child  has  looked  into  its  mother's  face,  felt  her  touch, 
heard  her  voice;  that  his  senses  carried  to  that  forming 
brain  their  sensations,  each  nerve  touching  the  brain,  and 
with  minute  force  setting  up  day  by  day,  month  by  month, 
and  year  by  year  a  model.  Yes,  go  back  further  and  re 
member  that  this  was  going  on  before  the  child  was  a 
distinct  individual;  we  have  the  creative  force  in  both 
stages !  Tell  me,  is  it  impossible  then  that  this  little  brain 
shall  grow  into  the  likeness  it  carries  as  its  most  serious 
impression,  and  that  forced  to  the  effort  would  on  can 
vas  or  in  its  posterity  produce  the  picture  it  has  made " 

"How  can  you  distinguish  the  mind  picture  from  the 
memory  picture?  What  is  the  difference?" 

The  question  came  from  Morgan  abruptly.  Gerald 
looked  up. 

"Not  easily,  but  if  I  can  produce  a  face  which  comes 
to  me  in  my  dreams,  which  haunts  my  waking  hours, 
which  is  with  me  always,  the  face  of  one  I  have  never 
seen,  it  must  come  to  me  as  a  mind  picture;  and  if  that 
picture  is  the  feminine  of  my  own,  have  I  not  reason  to 
believe  that  it  stands  for  the  creative  power  from  which  I 
sprung?  Such  a  picture  as  this." 

He  drew  a  little  curtain  aside  and  on  the  wall  shone 
the  fair  face  of  a  woman ;  the  face  from  the  church  sketch, 


HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN.          113 

but  robbed  of  its  terror,  the  counterpart  of  the  little  paint 
ing  upstairs.  The  professor  looked  grave,  but  Edward 
gazed  on  it  in  awe. 

"Now  a  simple  brain  picture,"  he  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper;  "draw  me  the  face  of  John  Morgan." 

The  artist  made  not  more  than  twenty  strokes  of  the 
crayon  upon  the  blackboard. 

"Such  is  John  Morgan,  as  I  last  saw  him,"  said  Gerald; 
"a  mere  photograph;  a  brain  picture!" 

Edward  gazed  from  one  to  the  other;  from  the  picture 
to  the  artist  astounded.  The  professor  had  put  on  his 
glasses;  it  was  he  who  broke  the  silence. 

"That  is  Herr  Abingdon,"  he  said.    Gerald  smiled. 

"That  is  John  Morgan." 

Without  a  word  Edward  left  the  room.  Under  an  as 
sumed  name,  deterred  from  open  recognition  by  the  sad 
facts  of  the  son's  birth,  his  father  had  watched  over  and 
cherished  him.  No  wonder  the  letter  had  come  back. 
Abingdon  was  dead! 

The  front  door  was  open.  He  plunged  directly  into 
the  arms  of  Barksdale  as  he  sought  the  open  air.  Barks- 
dale  was  one  of  those  men  who  seem  to  be  without  senti 
ment,  because  they  have  been  trained  by  circumstances 
to  look  at  facts  from  a  business  standpoint  only.  Yet  the 
basis  of  his  whole  life  was  sentiment. 

In  the  difficulty  that  had  arisen  his  quick  mind  grasped 
at  once  the  situation.  He  knew  Royson  and  was  sure 
that  he  shielded  himself  behind  some  collateral  fact,  not 
behind  the  main  truth.  In  the  first  place  he  was  hardly 
in  position  to  know  anything  of  Morgan's  history  more 
than  the  general  public  would  have  known.  In  the  sec 
ond,  he  would  not  have  dared  to  use  it  under  any  circum 
stances  if  those  circumstances  did  not  protect  him.  What 
were  these?  First  there  was  Morgan's  isolation;  only  one 
family  could  be  said  to  be  intimate  with  him,  and  they 
could  not,  on  account  of  the  younger  Montjoy,  act  for 
Edward.  The  single  controlling  idea  that  thrust  itself 
into  Barksdale's  mind  was  the  proposition  that  Royson 
did  not  intend  to  fight. 

Then  the  position  of  the  Montjoy  family  flashed  upon 
him.  The  blow  had  been  delivered  to  crush  the  colonel 
8 


114  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

politically  and  upon  a  man  who  was  his  unselfish  ally. 
Owing  to  the  nature  of  the  attack  Col.  Montjoy  could  ask 
no  favors  of  Royson,  and  owing  to  the  relationship,  he 
could  not  proceed  against  him  in  Morgan's  interest.  He 
could  neither  act  for  nor  advise,  and  in  the  absence  of 
Col.  Montjoy,  who  else  could  be  found? 

Before  replying  to  Edward,  a  plan  of  action  occurred 
to  him.  When  he  sent  that  excited  individual  home  he 
went  direct  to  Royson's  office.  He  found  the  door  open 
and  that  gentleman  serenely  engaged  in  writing.  Even 
at  this  point  he  was  not  deceived;  he  knew  that  his  ap 
proach  had  been  seen,  as  had  Edward's,  and  preparations 
made  accordingly. 

Royson  had  been  city  attorney  and  in  reality  the  tool 
of  a  ring.  His  ambition  was  boundless.  Through  friends 
he  had  broached  a  subject  very  dear  to  him;  he  desired  to 
become  counsel  for  the  large  corporations  that  Barksdale 
represented,  and  there  was  a  surprised  satisfaction  in  his 
tones  as  he  welcomed  the  railroad  president  and  gave 
him  a  seat. 

Barksdale  opened  the  conversation  on  this  line  and 
asked  for  a  written  opinion  upon  a  claim  of  liability  in  a 
recent  accident.  He  went  further  and  stated  that  per 
haps  later  Royson  might  be  relied  upon  frequently  in 
such  cases.  The  town  was  talking  of  nothing  else  at  that 
time  but  the  Royson  card.  It  was  natural  that  Barksdale 
should  refer  to  it. 

"A  very  stiff  communication,  that  of  yours,  about  Mr. 
Morgan,"  he  said,  carelessly;  "it  will  probably  be  fortu 
nate  for  you  if  your  informant  is  not  mistaken." 

"There  is  no  mistake,"  said  Royson,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  glad  that  the  subject  had  been  brought  up. 
"It  does  seem  a  rough  card  to  write,  but  I  have  reason  to 
think  there  was  no  better  way  out  of  a  very  ugly  compli 
cation." 

"The  name  of  your  informant  will  be  demanded,  of 
course." 

"Yes,  but  I  shall  not  give  it!" 

"Then  will  come  a  challenge." 

"Hardly!"  Royson  arose  and  closed  the  door.  "If 
you  have  a  few  moments  and  do  not  mind  hearing  this, 


HOW  THE  CHALLENGE  WAS  WRITTEN.  115 

I  will  tell  you  in  confidence  the  whole  business.  Who 
would  be  sought  to  make  a  demand  upon  me  for  the 
name  of  my  informant?" 

"One  of  the  Montjoys  naturally,  but  your  relationship 
barring  them  they  would  perhaps  find  Mr.  Morgan  a 
second." 

"But  suppose  that  I  prove  conclusively  that  the  infor 
mation  came  from  a  member  of  the  Montjoy  family? 
What  could  they  do?  Under  the  circumstances  which 
have  arisen  their  hands  are  tied.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am 
the  only  one  that  can  protect  them.  If  the  matter  came 
to  that  point,  as  a  last  resort  I  could  refuse  to  fight,  for 
the  reason  given  in  the  letter." 

Barksdale  was  silent.  The  whole  devilish  plot  flashed 
upon  him.  He  knew  in  advance  the  person  described  as 
a  member  of  the  Montjoy  family,  and  he  knew  the  base 
motives  of  the  man  who  at  that  moment  was  dishonoring 
him  with  his  confidence.  His  blood  boiled  within  him. 
Cool  and  calm  as  he  was  by  nature,  his  face  showed  emo 
tion  as  he  arose  and  said: 

"I  think  I  understand." 

Royson  stood  by  the  door,  his  hand  upon  the  knob, 
after  his  visitor  had  gone. 

"It  was  a  mistake ;  a  great  mistake,"  he  said  to  himself 
in  a  whisper.  "I  have  simply  acted  the  fool!" 

Barksdale  went  straight  to  a  friend  upon  whose  judg 
ment  he  relied  and  laid  the  matter  before  him.  Together 
they  selected  three  of  the  most  honorable  and  prominent 
men  in  the  city,  friends  of  the  Montjoys,  and  submitted 
it  to  them. 

The  main  interest  was  now  centered  in  saving  the  Mont 
joy  family.  Edward  had  become  secondary.  An  agree 
ment  was  reached  upon  Barksdale's  suggestion  and  all 
was  now  complete  unless  the  aggrieved  party  should  lose 
his  case  in  the  correspondence  about  to  ensue. 

Barksdale  disguised  his  surprise  when  he  assisted  Ed 
ward  at  the  door  to  recover  his  equilibrium. 

"I  am  here,  sir,  as  I  promised,"  he  said,  "but  the  com 
plications  extend  further  than  I  knew.  I  now  state  that 
I  cannot  act  for  you  in  any  capacity  and  ask  that  I  be 
relieved  of  my  promise."  Edward  bowed  stiffly. 


116  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"You  are  released." 

"There  is  but  one  man  in  this  city  who  can  serve  you 
and  bring  about  a  meeting.  Gerald  Morgan  must  bear 
your  note!"  Edward  repeated  the  name.  He  could  not 
grasp  the  idea.  "Gerald  Morgan,"  said  Barksdale  again. 
"He  will  not  need  to  go  on  the  field.  Good-night.  And 
if  that  fails  you  here  is  your  pistol ;  you  are  no  longer  un 
der  my  guidance.  But  one  word  more — my  telephone  is 
280;  if  during  the  night  or  at  any  time  I  can  advise  you, 
purely  upon  formal  grounds,  summon  me.  In  the  mean 
time  see  to  it  that  your  note  does  not  demand  the  name 
of  Royson's  informant.  Do  not  neglect  that.  The  use 
he  has  made  of  his  information  must  be  made  the  basis 
of  the  quarrel;  if  you  neglect  this  your  case  is  lost.  Good 
night." 

The  thought  flashed  into  Edward's  mind  then  that  the 
world  was  against  him.  This  man  was  fearful  of  becom 
ing  responsible  himself.  He  had  named  Gerald.  It  was 
a  bruised  and  slender  reed,  but  he  would  lean  upon  it, 
even  if  he  crushed  it  in  the  use.  He  returned  to  the  wing- 
room. 

"Professor,"  he  said,  "you  know  that  under  no  possible 
circumstances  would  I  do  you  a  discourtesy,  so  when  I 
tell  you,  as  now,  that  for  to-night  and  possibly  a  day,  we 
are  obliged  to  leave  you  alone,  you  will  understand  that 
some  vital  matter  lies  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

"My  young  friend,"  exclaimed  that  gentleman,  "go  as 
long  as  you  please.  I  have  a  little  world  of  my  own,  you 
know,"  he  smiled  cheerfully,  "in  which  I  am  always 
amused.  Gerald  has  enlarged  it.  Go  and  come  when 
you  can;  here  are  books — what  more  does  one  need?" 
Edward  bowed  slightly. 

"Gerald,  follow  me."  Gerald,  without  a  word,  laid 
aside  his  crayon  and  obeyed.  He  stood  in  the  library  a 
moment  later  looking  with  tremulous  excitement  upon 
the  man  who  had  summoned  him  so  abruptly.  By  re 
flection  he  was  beginning  to  share  the  mental  disturb 
ance.  His  frail  figure  quivered  and  he  could  not  keep 
erect. 

"Read  that!"  said  Edward,  handing  him  the  paper. 
He  took  the  sheet  and  read.  When  he  finished  he  was  no 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY.  117 

longer  trembling,  but  to  the  astonishment  of  Edward, 
very  calm.  A  look  of  weariness  rested  upon  his  face. 

"Have  you  killed  him?"  he  asked,  laying  aside  the 
paper,  his  mind  at  once  connecting  the  incident  of  the 
pistol  with  this  one. 

"No,  he  is  in  hiding." 

"Have  you  challenged  him?" 

"No!  My  God,  can  you  not  understand?  I  am  with 
out  friends!  The  whole  city  believes  the  story."  A 
strange  expression  came  upon  the  face  of  Gerald. 

"We  must  challenge  him  at  once,"  he  said.  "I  am,  of 
course,  the  proper  second.  I  must  ask  you  in  the  first 
place  to  calm  yourself.  The  records  must  be  perfect." 
He  seated  himself  at  a  desk  and  prepared  to  write.  Ed 
ward  was  walking  the  room.  He  came  and  stood  by  his 
side. 

"Do  not  demand  the  name  of  his  informant,"  he  said; 
"make  the  publication  and  circulation  of  the  letter  the 
cause  of  our  grievance." 

"Of  course,"  was  the  reply.  The  letter  was  written 
rapidly.  "Sign  it  if  you  please,"  said  Gerald.  Edward 
read  the  letter  and  noticed  that  it  was  written  smoothly 
and  without  a  break.  He  signed  it.  Gerald  had  already 
rung  for  the  buggy  and  disappeared.  "Wait  here,"  he 
had  said,  "until  I  return.  In  the  meantime  do  not  con 
verse  with  any  one  upon  this  subject."  The  thought  that 
flashed  upon  the  mind  of  the  man  left  in  the  drawing- 
room  was  that  the  race  courage  had  become  dominant, 
and  for  the  time  being  was  superior  to  ill-health,  mental 
trouble  and  environment.  It  was  in  itself  a  confirmation 
of  the  cruel  letter.  The  manhood  of  Albert  Evan  had 
become  a  factor  in  the  drama. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
BROUGHT  TO  BAY. 

Col.  Montjoy  was  apprised  of  the  unexpected  result 
in  the  backwoods  at  an  early  hour.  He  read  the  an 
nouncement  quietly  and  went  on  his  usual  morning  ride 


118  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

undisturbed.  Then  through  the  family  spread  the  news 
as  the  other  members  made  their  appearance. 

Mrs.  Montjoy  said,  gently:  "All  happens  for  the  best. 
If  Mr.  Montjoy  had  been  elected  he  would  have  been 
exposed  for  years  to  the  Washington  climate,  and  he  is 
not  very  well  at  any  time.  He  complained  of  his  heart 
several  times  last  night." 

But  Mary  went  off  and  had  a  good  cry.  She  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  the  slightest  affront  to  her 
stately  father.  She  felt  better  after  her  cry  and  kissed 
the  old  gentleman  as  he  came  in  to  breakfast. 

"I  see  you  have  all  heard  the  news,"  he  said,  cheerily. 
''Well,  it  lifts  a  load  from  me.  I  spent  four  very  trying 
years  up  in  the  neighborhood  of  Washington,  and  I  am 
not  well  disposed  toward  the  locality.  I  have  done  my 
duty  to  the  fullest  extent  in  this  matter.  The  people 
Who  know  me  have  given  me  an  overwhelming  indorse 
ment,  and  I  have  been  beaten  only  by  people  who  do 
not  know  me!  Swearingen  will  doubtless  make  a  good 
representative,  after  all.  I  am  sorry  for  Evan,"  he 
added,  laughing.  "It  will  be  news  to  him  to  find  out 
that  the  old  Fire-Eaters  have  been  worsted  at  last."  He 
went  to  breakfast  with  his  arms  around  wife  and  daugh 
ter.  "All  the  honors  of  public  life  cannot  compensate  a 
man  for  separation  from  his  home,"  he  said,  "and  Provi 
dence  knows  it." 

Annie  was  silent  and  anxious.  She  made  a  feeble 
effort  to  sympathize  with  the  defeated,  but  with  poor 
success.  During  the  morning  she  started  at  every  sound 
and  went  frequently  to  the  front  door.  She  knew  her 
cousin,  and  something  assured  her  that  his  hand  was  in 
this  mischief.  How  would  it  affect  her?  In  her  room 
she  laughed  triumphantly. 

"Vain  fools!"  she  exclaimed;  "let  them  stay  where 
they  belong!"  In  the  afternoon  there  was  the  sound  of 
buggy  wheels,  and  a  servant  brought  to  the  veranda, 
where  they  were  sitting,  a  package.  Adjusting  his 
glasses,  the  colonel  opened  it  to  find  one  of  the  extras. 
At  the  head  of  this  was  written:  "Thinking  it  probable 
that  it  may  be  important  for  this  to  reach  you  to-day, 
and  fearing  it  might  not  otherwise,  I  send  it  by  mes- 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY.  119 

senger  in  buggy.  Use  him  as  you  desire."  To  this  was 
signed  the  name  of  a  friend. 

Annie,  who  watched  the  colonel  as  he  read,  saw  his 
face  settle  into  sternness,  and  then  an  expression  of  anx 
iety  overspread  it.  "Anything  serious,  Norton?"  It  was 
the  voice  of  his  wife,  who  sat  knitting. 

"A  matter  connected  with  the  election  calls  me  to 
town,"  he  said;  "I  hope  it  will  be  the  last  time.  I  will 
go  in  with  the  driver  who  brought  the  note."  He  went 
inside  and  made  his  few  arrangements  and  departed 
hurriedly.  After  he  was  gone,  Annie  picked  up  the 
paper  from  the  hall  table,  where  he  had  placed  it,  and 
read  the  fatal  announcement.  Although  frightened,  she 
could  scarcely  conceal  her  exultation.  Mary  was  pass 
ing;  she  thrust  the  paper  before  her  eyes  and  said: 
"Read  that!  So  much  for  entertaining  strangers!" 

Mary  read.  The  scene  whirled  about  her,  and  but  for 
the  knowledge  that  her  suffering  was  bringing  satisfac 
tion  to  the  woman  before  her  she  would  have  fallen  to 
the  floor.  She  saw  in  the  gleeful  eyes,  gleaming  upon 
her,  something  of  the  truth.  With  a  desperate  effort  she 
restrained  herself  and  the  furious  words  that  had  rushed 
to  her  lips,  and  laid  aside  the  paper  with  unutterable 
scorn  and  dignity. 

"The  lie  was  too  cheap  to  pass  anywhere  except  in  the 
backwoods." 

A  smile  curled  the  thin  lips  of  the  other  as  she  wit 
nessed  the  desperate  struggle  of  the  girl.  The  voice  ot 
Col.  Montjoy,  who  had  returned  to  the  gate,  was  heard 
calling  to  Mary: 

"Daughter,  bring  the  paper  from  the  hall  table." 

She  carried  it  to  him.  Something  in  her  pale  face 
caused  him  to  ask:  "Have  you  read  it,  daughter?" 

She  nodded  her  head.  He  was  instantly  greatly  con 
cerned  and  began  some  rambling  explanation  about  cam 
paign  lies  and  political  methods.  But  he  could  not  dis 
guise  the  fact  that  he  was  shocked  beyond  expression. 
She  detained  him  but  a  moment.  Oh,  wonderful  power 
of  womanly  intuition! 

"Father,"  she  said  faintly,  "be  careful  what  you  do. 
The  whole  thing  originated  back  yonder,"  nodding  her 


120  SONS  lAND   FATHERS. 

head  toward  the  house.  She  had  said  it,  and  now  her 
eyes  blazed  defiance.  He  looked  upon  her  in  amaze 
ment,  not  comprehending,  but  the  matter  grew  clearer 
as  he  thought  upon  it. 

Arriving  in  the  city  he  was  prepared  for  anything. 
He  went  direct  to  Royson's  office,  and  that  gentleman 
seeing  him  enter  smiled.  The  visit  was  expected  and 
desired.  He  bowed  formally,  however,  and  moving  a 
chair  forward  locked  the  door.  Darkness  had  just  fallen, 
but  the  electric  light  outside  the  window  was  sufficient  for 
an  interview;  neither  seemed  to  care  for  more. 

"Amos,"  said  the  old  man,  plunging  into  the  heart  of  the 
subject,  "you  have  done  a  shameful  and  a  cruel  thing,  and 
I  have  come  to  tell  you  so  and  insist  upon  your  righting 
the  wrong.  You  know  me  too  well  to  suspect  that  per 
sonal  reasons  influence  me  in  the  least.  As  far  as  I  am 
concerned  the  wrong  cannot  be  righted,  and  I  would  not 
purchase  nor  ask  a  personal  favor  from  you.  The  man 
you  have  insulted  so  grievously  is  a  stranger  and  has 
acted  the  part  of  a  generous  friend  to  those  who,  although 
you  may  not  value  the  connection,  are  closely  bound  to 
you.  In  the  name  of  God,  how  could  you  do  it?"  He 
was  too  full  of  indignation  to  proceed,  and  he  had  need 
of  coolness. 

The  other  did  not  move  nor  give  the  slightest  evidence 
of  feeling.  He  had  this  advantage ;  the  part  he  was  act 
ing  had  been  carefully  planned  and  rehearsed.  After  a 
moment's  hesitation,  he  said: 

"You  should  realize,  Col.  Mont  joy,  that  I  have  acted 
only  after  calm  deliberation,  and  the  matter  is  not  one 
to  be  discussed  excitedly.  I  cannot  refuse  to  talk  with 
you  about  it,  but  it  is  a  cold-blooded  matter  of  policy 
only."  The  manner  and  tone  of  the  speaker  chilled  the 
elder  to  the  heart.  Royson  continued:  "As  for  myself 
and  you — well,  it  was  an  open,  impersonal  fight.  You 
know  my  ambition ;  it  was  as  laudable  as  yours.  I  have 
worked  for  years  to  keep  in  the  line  of  succession ;  I  could 
not  be  expected  to  sit  silent  and  while  losing  my  whole 
chance  see  my  friend  defeated.  Your  election  meant  the 
eternal  shelving  of  my  hopes.  All  is  fair  in  love  and  war 
— and  politics.  I  have  used  such  weapons  as  came  to 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY.  121 

my  hand,  and  the  last  I  used  only  when  defeat  was 
certain." 

Controlling  himself  with  great  effort,  Col.  Montjoy 
said: 

"You  certainly  cannot  expect  the  matter  to  end  here!" 

"How  can  it  proceed?"  A  slight  smile  lighted  the 
lawyer's  face. 

"A  demand  will  be  made  upon  you  for  your  authority." 

"Who  will  make  it— you?" 

A  light  dawned  upon  the  elder.  The  cool  insolence  of 
the  man  was  more  than  he  could  endure. 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed,  rising.  "As  God  is  my  judge,  if 
he  comes  to  me  I  will  make  the  demand!  Ingratitude 
was  never  charged  against  one  of  my  name.  This  man 
has  done  me  a  lasting  favor;  he  shall  not  suffer  for  need 
of  a  friend,  if  I  have  to  sacrifice  every  connection  in  the 
world." 

Again  the  lawyer  smiled. 

"I  think  it  best  to  remember,  colonel,  that  we  can 
reach  no  sensible  conclusion  without  cool  consideration. 
Let  me  ask  you,  then,  for  information.  If  I  should 
answer  that  the  charges  in  my  letter,  so  far  as  Morgan's 
parentage  is  concerned,  were  based  upon  statements 
made  by  a  member  of  your  immediate  family,  what  would 
be  your  course?" 

"I  should  denounce  you  as  a  liar  and  make  the  quarrel 
my  own." 

Royson  grew  pale,  but  made  no  reply.  He  walked  to 
his  desk,  and  taking  from  it  a  letter  passed  it  to  the 
angry  man.  He  lighted  the  gas,  while  the  colonel's  trem 
bling  hands  were  arranging  his  glasses,  and  stood  silent, 
waiting.  The  note  was  in  a  feminine  hand.  Col.  Mont- 
joy  read: 

"My  Dear  Amos:  I  have  been  thinking  over  the  in 
formation  I  gave  you  touching  the  base  parentage  of  the 
man  Morgan,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that  it  should  be  sup 
pressed  so  far  as  the  public  is  concerned,  and  brought 
home  here  in  another  way.  The  facts  cannot  be  easily 
proved,  and  the  affair  would  create  a  great  scandal,  in 
which  I,  as  a  member  of  this  absurd  family,  would  be  in 
volved.  You  should  not  use  it,  at  any  rate,  except  as  a 


122  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

desperate  measure,  and  then  only  upon  the  understanding 
that  you  are  to  become  responsible,  and  that  I  am  in  no 
way  whatever  to  be  brought  into  the  matter.  Yours  in 
haste,  Annie." 

The  reader  let  the  paper  fall  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands  a  moment  Then  he  arose  with  dignity. 

"I  did  not  imagine,  sir,  that  the  human  heart  was  capa 
ble  of  such  villainy  as  yours  has  developed.  You  have 
stabbed  a  defenseless  stranger  in  the  back;  have  broken 
faith  with  a  poor,  jealous,  weak  woman,  and  have  out 
raged  and  humiliated  me,  to  whom  you  are  personally 
indebted  financially  and  otherwise.  Unlock  your  door! 
I  have  but  one  honorable  course  left.  I  shall  publish  a 
card  in  the  morning's  paper  stating  that  your  letter  was 
based  upon  statements  made  by  a  member  of  my  family; 
that  they  are  untrue  in  every  respect,  and  offer  a  public 
apology." 

"Will  you  name  the  informant?" 

"What  is  that  to  you,  sir?" 

"A  great  deal!  If  you  do  name  her,  I  shall  reaffirm 
the  truth  of  her  statements,  as  in  the  absence  of  her  hus 
band  I  am  her  nearest  relative.  If  you  do  not  name  her, 
then  the  public  may  guess  wrong.  I  think  you  will  not 
do  so  rash  a  thing,  colonel.  Keep  out  of  the  matter. 
Circumstances  give  you  a  natural  right  to  hands  off!" 

"And  if  I  do!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  passionately, 
"who  will  act  for  him?"  The  unpleasant  smile  returned 
to  the  young  man's  lips. 

"No  one,  I  apprehend!" 

Montjoy  could  have  killed  him  as  he  stood.  He  felt 
the  ground  slipping  from  under  him  as  he,  too,  realized 
the  completeness  and  cowardliness  of  the  plot. 

"We  shall  see;  we  shall  see!"  he  said,  gasping  and 
pressing  his  hand  to  his  heart.  "We  shall  see,  Mr. 
Royson !  There  is  a  just  God  who  looks  down  upon  the 
acts  of  all  men,  and  the  right  prevails !" 

Royson  bowed  mockingly  but  profoundly. 

"That  is  an  old  doctrine.  You  are  going,  and  there  is 
just  one  thing  left  unsaid.  At  the  risk  of  offending  you 
yet  more,  I  am  going  to  say  it." 


BROUGHT  TO  BAY.  123 

"I  warn  you,  then,  to  be  careful;  there  is  a  limit  to 
human  endurance  and  I  have  nearly  reached  mine." 

"It  is  this:  You  have  persistently  ascribed  to  me  the 
worst  of  motives  in  this  matter,  but  I  have  as  much 
pride  in  my  family  as  you  in  yours.  There  are  but  few 
of  us  left.  Will  you  concede  that  if  there  is  danger,  in 
her  opinion,  that  she  will  become  the  sister-in-law  of 
this  man,  and  that  she  believed  the  information  she  has 
given  to  be  true,  will  you  concede  that  her  action  is 
natural,  if  not  wise,  and  that  a  little  more  than  selfishness 
may  after  all  be  mixed  in  mine?"  Gradually  his  meaning 
dawned  upon  his  hearer.  For  a  second  he  was  dumb. 
And  all  this  was  to  be  public  property! 

"I  think,"  said  Royson,  coolly  opening  the  door,  "it 
will  be  well  for  you  to  confer  with  friends  before  you  pro 
ceed,  and  perhaps  leave  to  others  the  task  of  righting  the 
wrongs  of  strangers  who  have  taken  advantage  of  your 
hospitality  to  offer  the  deadliest  insult  possible  in  this 
southern  country.  It  may  not  be  well  to  arm  this  man 
with  the  fact  that  you  vouch  for  him;  he  may  answer 
you  in  the  future." 

He  drew  back  from  the  door  suddenly,  half  in  terror. 
A  man,  pale  as  death  itself,  with  hair  curling  down  upon 
his  shoulders,  and  eyes  that  blazed  under  the  yellow  gas 
light,  stood  before  him. 

"Mr.  Amos  Royson,  I  believe,"  the  man  was  saying,  in 
clear,  musical  tones.  "I  beg  to  hand  you  this  note." 
Royson,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  face  before  him, 
whose  eyes  never  for  a  moment  left  his,  broke  the  seal. 
Then  he  read  aloud: 

"Mr.  Amos  Royson — Sir:  I  inclose  for  your  inspec 
tion  a  clipping  from  an  extra  issued  this  day,  and  ask 
if  you  are  the  author  of  the  letter  it  contains.  If  you 
answer  yes,  I  hereby  demand  of  you  an  unconditional 
retraction  of  and  apology  for  the  same,  for  publication  in 
the  paper  which  contained  the  original.  This  will  be 
handed  to  you  by  my  friend,  Gerald  Morgan. 

"Edward  Morgan." 

Royson  recovered  himself  with  evident  difficulty. 
"This  is  not  customary — he  does  not  demand  the  name 
of  my  informant!"  he  said. 


124  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"We  do  not  care  a  fig,  sir,  for  your  informant.  The 
insult  rests  in  the  use  you  have  made  of  a  lie,  and  we 
propose  to  hold  you  responsible  for  it!" 

Gerald  spoke  the  words  like  a  sweet-voiced  girl  and 
returned  the  stare  of  his  opponent  with  insolent  coolness. 
The  colonel  had  paused,  as  he  perceived  the  complete 
ness  of  the  lawyers  entrapping.  Amos  could  not  use 
his  cousin's  name  before  the  public  and  the  Montjoys 
were  saved  from  interference.  He  was  cornered.  The 
colonel  passed  out  hurriedly  with  an  affectionate  smile 
to  Gerald,  saying: 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen;  these  are  matters  which  you 
will  probably  wish  to  discuss  in  private.  Mr.  Royson,  I 
had  friends  wiser  than  myself  at  work  upon  this  matter, 
and  I  did  not  know  it." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THEIR  FRIENDS. 

It  was  not  sunset  when  Col.  Montjoy  left  home.  Mary 
went  to  her  room  and  threw  herself  upon  her  bed,  sick 
at  heart  and  anxious  beyond  the  power  of  weeping. 
Unadvised,  ignorant  of  the  full  significance  of  the  infor 
mation  that  had  been  conveyed  to  them,  she  conjured 
up  a  world  of  danger  for  her  father  and  for  Edward. 
Tragedy  was  in  the  air  she  breathed.  At  supper  she  was 
laboring  under  ill-concealed  excitement.  Fortunately 
for  her,  the  little  mother  was  not  present.  Sitting  in  her 
room,  with  the  green  glasses  to  which  she  had  been 
reduced  by  the  progress  of  her  disease,  she  did  not  notice 
the  expression  of  the  daughter's  face  when  she  came  as 
usual  to  look  after  the  final  arrangement  of  her  mother's 
comfort. 

By  8  o'clock  the  house  was  quiet.  Throwing  a  light 
wrap  over  her  shoulders  and  concealing  in  its  folds  her 
father's  army  pistol,  Mary  slipped  into  the  outer  dark 
ness  and  whistled  softly.  A  great  shaggy  dog  came 
bounding  around  from  the  rear  and  leaped  upon  her. 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THEIR  FRIENDS.  125 

She  rested  her  hand  on  his  collar,  and  together  they 
passed  into  the  avenue.  Old  Isam  stood  there  and  by 
him  the  pony  phaeton  and  mare. 

"Stay  up  until  I  return,  please,  Uncle  Isam,  and  be 
sure  to  meet  me  here!"  The  old  man  bowed. 

"I'll  be  hyar,  missy,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  want  me  to 
go,  too?" 

"No,  thank  you;  I  am  going  to  Gen.  Evan's  and  you 
must  stay  and  look  after  things.  Nero  will  go  with  me." 
The  dog  had  already  leaped  into  the  vehicle.  She  sprang 
in  also,  and  almost  noiselessly  they  rolled  away  over  the 
pine  straw. 

The  old  man  listened;  first  he  heard  the  dogs  bark  at 
Rich's,  then  at  Manuel's  and  then  at  black  Henry's, 
nearly  a  mile  away.  He  shook  his  head. 

"Missy  got  somep'n  on  her  mind !  She  don't  make  no 
hoss  move  in  de  night  dat  way  for  nothin'!  Too  fast! 
Too  fast!" 

He  went  off  to  his  cabin  and  sat  outside  to  smoke. 
And  in  the  night  the  little  mare  sped  away.  On  the 
public  roads  the  gait  was  comparatively  safe,  and  she 
responded  to  every  call  nobly.  The  unbroken  shadows 
of  the  roadside  glided  like  walls  of  gloom!  The  little 
vehicle  rocked  and  swayed,  and,  underneath,  the  wheels 
sang  a  monotonous  warning  rhyme. 

Now  and  then  the  little  structure  fairly  leaped  from  the 
ground,  for  when  Norton,  a  year  previous,  had  bid  in 
that  animal  at  a  blooded-stock  sale  in  Kentucky,  she  was 
in  her  third  summer  and  carried  the  blood  of  Wilkes  and 
Rysdyk's  Hambletonian,  and  was  proud  of  it,  as  her 
every  motion  showed. 

The  little  mare  had  the  long  route  that  night,  but  at  last 
she  stood  before  the  doorway  of  the  Cedars.  The  gen 
eral  was  descending  the  steps  as  Mary  gave  Nero  the 
lines. 

"What!     Mary—" 

He  feared  to  ask  the  question  on  his  lips.  She  was 
full  of  excitement,  and  her  first  effort  to  speak  was  a 
dismal  failure. 

"Come!  Come!  Come!"  he  said,  in  that  descending- 
scale  of  voice  which  seems  to  have  been  made  for  sym- 


126  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

pathy  and  encouragement.  "Calm  yourself  first  and  talk 
later."  He  had  his  arms  around  her  now  and  was 
ascending  the  steps.  "Sit  right  down  here  in  this  big 
chair;  there  you  are!" 

"You  have  not  heard,  then?"  she  said,  controlling  her 
self  with  supreme  effort. 

"About  your  father's  defeat?  Oh,  yes.  But  what  of 
that?  There  are  defeats  more  glorious  than  victories,  my 
child.  You  will  find  that  your  father  was  taken  advan 
tage  of.  The  Fire-Eaters  were  not  whipped  in  a  fair 
fight!"  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"It  is  not  about  that,  sir — the  means  they  used !"  And 
then,  between  sobs,  she  told  him  the  whole  story.  He 
made  no  reply,  no  comment,  but  reaching  over  to  the 
rail  secured  his  corn-cob  pipe  and  filled  it.  As  he  struck 
a  match  above  the  tobacco,  she  saw  that  his  face  was  as 
calm  as  the  candid  skies  of  June.  The  sight  gave  her 
courage. 

"Do  you  not  think  it  awful?"  she  ventured. 

"Awful?  Yes!  A  man  to  descend  to  such  depths  of 
meanness  must  have  suffered  a  great  deal  on  the  way. 
I  am  sorry  for  Royson — sorry,  indeed!" 

"But  Mr.  Morgan!"  she  exclaimed,  excitedly. 

"That  must  be  •  attended  to,"  he  said,  very  gravely. 
"Mr.  Morgan  has  placed  us  all  under  heavy  obligations, 
and  we  must  see  him  through." 

"You  must,  general ;  you  must,  and  right  away !  They 
have  sent  for  poor  papa,  and  he  has  gone  to  town,  and  I 
— I — just  could  not  sleep,  so  I  came  to  you."  He 
laughed  heartily. 

"And  in  a  hurry!  Whew!  I  heard  the  mare's  feet  as 
she  crossed  the  bridge  a  mile  away.  You  did  just  right. 
And  now  of  course  the  old  general  is  expected  to  go  to 
town  and  pull  papa  and  Mr.  Morgan  out  of  the  mud, 
and  straighten  out  things.  John!" 

"Yes,  sah!" 

"Put  the  saddle  on  my  horse  at  once.  And  now,  how 
is  the  little  mamma?"  he  asked,  gently. 

He  held  her  on  this  subject  until  the  horse  was  brought, 
and  then  they  rode  off  down  the  avenue,  the  general  fol 
lowing  and  rallying  the  girl  upon  her  driving. 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THEIR  FRIENDS.  127 

"Don't  expect  me  to  hold  to  that  pace,"  he  said.  "I 
once  crossed  a  bridge  as  fast,  and  faster,  up  in  Virginia, 
but  I  was  trying  to  beat  the  bluecoats.  Too  old  now, 
too  old." 

"But  you  will  get  there  in  time?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  yes;  they  will  be  consulting  and  sending  notes 
and  raising  points  all  night.  I  will  get  in  somewhere 
along  the  line.  When  a  man  starts  out  to  hunt  up 
trouble  he  is  rarely  ever  too  late  to  find  it."  He  saw  her 
safely  to  where  Isam  was  waiting,  and  then  rode  on  to 
the  city.  He  realized  the  complication,  and  now  his 
whole  thought  was  to  keep  his  neighbor  from  doing  any 
thing  rash.  It  did  occur  to  him  that  there  might  be  a 
street  tragedy,  but  he  shook  his  head  over  this  when  he 
remembered  Royson.  "He  is  too  much  of  a  schemer  for 
that,"  he  said.  "He  will  get  the  matter  into  the  hands 
of  a  board  of  honor."  The  old  gentleman  laughed  softly 
to  himself  and  touched  up  his  horse. 

In  the  meantime  affairs  were  drawing  to  a  focus  in  the 
city.  After  the  abrupt  departure  of  Gerald,  Royson 
stood  alone,  holding  the  demand  and  thinking.  An  anx 
ious  expression  had  settled  upon  his  face.  He  read  and 
reread  the  curt  note,  but  could  find  no  flaw  in  it.  He  was 
to  be  held  responsible  for  the  publication;  that  was  the 
injury.  He  was  forced  to  confess  that  the  idea  was 
sound.  There  was  now  no  way  to  involve  the  Montjoys 
and  let  them  hush  it  up.  He  had  expected  to  be  forced 
to  withdraw  the  card  and  apologize,  but  not  until  the 
whole  city  was  informed  that  he  did  it  to  save  a  woman, 
and  he  would  have  been  placed  then  in  the  position  of 
one  sacrificing  himself.  Now  that  such  refuge  was  im 
possible  he  could  not  even  escape  by  giving  the  name  of 
his  informant.  He  could  not  have  given  it  had  there 
been  a  demand. 

He  read  between  the  lines  that  his  authority  was  known  ; 
that  he  was  dealing  with  some  master  mind  and  that  he 
had  been  outgeneraled  somewhere.  To  whom  had  he 
talked?  To  no  one  except  Barksdale.  He  gave  vent 
to  a  profane  estimate  of  himself  and  left  the  office.  There 
was  no  danger  now  of  a  street  assault. 


128  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

Amos  Royson  threw  himself  into  a  carriage  and  went 
to  the  residence  of  Marsden  Thomas,  dismissing  the 
vehicle.  The  family  of  Marsden  Thomas  was  an  old 
one,  and  by  reason  of  its  early  reputation  in  politics  and 
at  the  bar  had  a  sound  and  honorable  footing.  Marsden 
was  himself  a  member  of  the  legislature,  a  born  politician, 
capable  of  anything  that  would  advance  his  fortune,  the 
limit  only  being  the  dead-line  of  disgrace. 

He  had  tied  to  Royson,  who  was  slightly  his  elder, 
because  of  his  experience  and  influence. 

He  was  noted  for  his  scrupulous  regard  for  the  code 
as  a  basis  of  settlement  between  honorable  men,  and 
was  generally  consulted  upon  points  of  honor. 

Secure  in  Thomas'  room,  Royson  went  over  the  events 
of  the  day,  including  Montjoy's  and  Gerald's  visits,  and 
then  produced  the  demand  that  had  been  served  upon 
him. 

Thomas  had  heard  him  through  without  interruption. 
When  Royson  described  the  entrance  of  Gerald,  with  the 
unlooked-for  note,  a  slight  smile  drew  his  lips;  he  put 
aside  the  note,  and  said: 

"You  are  in  a  very  serious  scrape,  Amos;  I  do  not 
see  how  you  can  avoid  a  fight."  His  visitor  studied  him 
intently. 

"You  must  help  me  out!  I  do  not  propose  to  fight." 
Thomas  gravely  studied  the  note  again-. 

"Of  course,  you  know  the  object  of  the  publication," 
continued  Royson;  "it  was  political.  Without  it  we 
would  have  been  beaten.  It  was  a  desperate  move;  I 
had  the  information  and  used  it." 

"You  had  information,  then?  I  thought  the  whole 
thing  was  hatched  up.  Who  gave  you  the  information?" 
Royson  frowned. 

"My  cousin,  Mrs.  Montjoy;  you  see  the  complication 
now.  I  supposed  that  no  one  but  the  Montjoys  knew 
this  man  intimately,  and  that  their  hands  would  be  tied !" 

"Ah!"  The  exclamation  was  eloquent.  "And  the 
young  man  had  another  friend,  the  morphine-eater;  you 
had  forgotten  him !"  Thomas  could  not  restrain  a  laugh. 
Royson  was  furious.  He  seized  his  hat  and  made  a  feint 
to  depart.  Thomas  kindly  asked  him  to  remain.  It 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THEIR  FRIENDS.  129 

would  have  been  cruel  had  he  failed,  for  he  knew  that 
Royson  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  leaving. 

"Come  back  and  sit  down,  Amos.  You  do  us  all  an 
injustice.  You  played  for  the  credit  of  this  victory,  con 
trary  to  our  advice,  and  now  you  have  the  hot  end  of 
the  iron." 

"Tell  me,"  said  Royson,  reverting  to  the  note,  "is  there 
anything  in  that  communication  that  we  can  take  advan 
tage  of?" 

"Nothing!  Morgan  might  have  asked  in  one  note  if 
you  were  the  author  of  the  published  letter  and  then  in 
another  have  demanded  a  retraction.  His  joining  the 
two  is  not  material ;  you  do  not  deny  the  authorship." 

After  a  few  moments  of  silence  he  continued:  "There 
is  one  point  I  am  not  satisfied  upon.  I  am  not  sure  but 
that  you  can  refuse  to  fight  upon  the  ground  you  alleged 
— in  brief,  because  he  is  not  a  gentleman.  Whether  or 
not  the  burden  of  proof  would  be  upon  you  is  an  open 
question;  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  would  be;  a  man  is 
not  called  upon  in  the  south  to  prove  his  title  to  gentility. 
All  southerners  with  whom  we  associate  are  supposed  to 
be  gentlemen,"  and  then  he  added,  lazily  smiling,  "except 
the  ladies;  and  it  is  a  pity  they  are  exempt.  Mrs.  Mont- 
joy  would  otherwise  be  obliged  to  hold  her  tongue!" 

Royson  was  white  with  rage,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
Secretly  he  was  afraid  of  Thomas,  and  it  had  occurred 
to  him  that  in  the  event  of  his  humiliation  or  death 
Thomas  would  take  his  place. 

This  unpleasant  reflection  was  interrupted  by  the  voice 
of  his  companion. 

"Suppose  we  call  in  some  of  our  friends  and  settle  this 
point."  The  affair  was  getting  in  the  shape  desired  by 
Royson,  and  he  eagerly  consented.  Notes  were  at  once 
dispatched  to  several  well-known  gentlemen,  and  a  short 
time  afterward  they  were  assembled  and  in  earnest  con 
versation.  It  was  evident  that  they  disagreed. 

While  this  consultation  was  going  on  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door;  a  servant  brought  a  card.  Gen. 
Evan  had  called  to  see  Mr.  Thomas,  but,  learning  that 
he  was  engaged  and  how,  had  left  the  note. 

Thomas  read  it  silently,  and  then  aloud: 


130  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Marsden  Thomas,  Esq. — Dear  Sir:  I  have  read  in 
to-day's  paper  the  painful  announcement  signed  by  Mr. 
Royson,  and  have  come  into  the  city  hoping  that  a 
serious  difficulty  might  thereby  be  averted.  To  assist  in 
the  settlement  of  this  matter,  I  hereby  state  over  my  own 
signature  that  the  announcement  concerning  Edward 
Morgan  is  erroneous,  and  I  vouch  for  his  right  to  the 
title  and  privileges  of  a  gentleman.  Respectfully, 

"Albert  Evan." 

The  silence  that  followed  this  was  broken  by  one  of  the 
older  gentlemen  present. 

"This  simplifies  matters  very  greatly,"  he  said.  "With 
out  the  clearest  and  most  positive  proof  to  the  contrary, 
Evan's  word  will  carry  public  opinion  with  it.  He  can 
be  mistaken,  but  never  false!  Without  such  proof,  Mr. 
Royson  must  retract  or  fight." 

They  took  their  departure  at  length,  leaving  Royson 
alone  to  gaze  upon  the  open  note.  Thomas,  returning, 
found  him  in  the  act  of  drawing  on  his  gloves. 

"I  am  going,"  said  Royson,  "to  send  a  message  to  An 
nie.  She  must,  she  shall  give  me  something  to  go  on.  I 
will  not  sit  quietly  by  and  be  made  a  sacrifice !" 

"Write  your  note;  I  will  send  it." 

"I  prefer  to  attend  to  it  myself!"  Thomas  shook  his 
head. 

"If  you  leave  this  room  to-night  it  is  with  the  under 
standing  that  I  am  no  longer  your  adviser.  Arrest  by  the 
police  must  not,  shall  not — " 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate — " 

"Nothing!  But  I  will  take  no  chances  with  the  name 
of  Thomas !"  said  the  other  proudly.  "You  are  excited ; 
a  word  let  fall — a  suspicion — and  we  would  be  disgraced ! 
Write  your  note;  I  will  send  it.  We  have  no  time  to 
lose!"  Royson  threw  himself  down  in  front  of  a  desk 
and  wrote  hurriedly: 

"Annie:  I  am  cornered.  For  God's  sake  give  me 
proofs  of  your  statements  or  tell  me  where  to  get  them. 
It  is  life  or  death;  don't  fail  me.  A.  R." 


IN  THE  HANDS  OF  THEIR  FRIENDS.  131 

He  sealed  and  addressed  this.  Thomas  rung  the  bell 
and  to  the  boy  he  said:  "How  far  is  it  to  Col.  Mont- 
joy's?" 

"Seven  miles,  sah!" 

"How  quickly  can  you  go  there  and  back?" 

"On  Pet?" 

"Yes." 

"One  hour  an'  a  half,  sah." 

"Take  this  note,  say  you  must  see  Mrs.  Norton  Mont- 
joy,  Jr.,  in  person,  on  important  matters,  and  deliver  it  to 
her.  Here  is  a  $5  bill;  if  you  are  back  in  two  hours, 
you  need  not  return  it.  Go!" 

There  was  a  gleam  of  ivory  teeth  and  the  boy  hurried 
away.  It  was  a  wretched  wait,  that  hour  and  a  half.  The 
answer  to  the  demand  must  go  into  the  paper  that  night! 

One  hour  and  thirty-two  minutes  passed.  They  heard 
the  horse  in  the  street,  then  the  boy  upon  the  stairway. 
He  dashed  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Mary  was  up  and  at  de  gate  when  I  got  deir! 
Reck'n  she  hear  Pet's  hoof  hit  de  hard  groun'  an'  hit 
skeered  her.  I  tole  her  what  you  say,  and  she  sen'  word 
dat  Mrs.  Montjoy  done  gone  to  sleep.  I  tell  her  you 
all  mighty  anxious  for  her  to  get  dat  note ;  dat  Mr.  Roy- 
son  up  here,  waitin',  an'  gentlemen  been  comin'  an'  goin' 
all  night.  She  took  de  note  in  den  and  putty  soon  she 
bring  back  the  answer!" 

He  was  searching  his  pockets  as  he  rambled  over  his 
experience,  and  presently  the  note  was  found.  It  was 
the  same  one  that  had  been  sent  by  Royson,  and  across 
the  back  was  written: 

"Mr.  Thomas:  I  think  it  best  not  to  awaken  Annie. 
Papa  is  in  town;  if  the  matter  is  of  great  importance  call 
upon  him.  I  am  so  certain  this  is  the  proper  course 
that  it  will  be  useless  to  write  again  or  call  in  person  to 
night  Respectfully,  M.  M." 

He  passed  the  note  to  Royson  in  silence  and  saw  the 
look  of  rage  upon  his  face  as  he  tore  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces. 

"Even  your  little  Montjoy  girl  seems  to  be  against 
you,"  he  said. 


132  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"She  is!"  exclaimed  Royson;  "she  knew  that  my  note 
to  Annie  was  not  in  the  interest  of  Edward  Morgan,  and 
she  is  fighting  for  him.  She  will  follow  him  to  the  altar 
or  the  grave!" 

"Ah,"  said  Thomas,  aside,  drawing  a  long  breath ;  "  'tis 
the  old  story,  and  I  thought  I  had  found  a  new  plot! 
Well,"  he  continued  aloud,  "what  next?" 

"It  shall  not  be  the  altar!  Conclude  the  arrange 
ments;  I  am  at  your  service!" 

"He  will  stick,"  said  Thomas  to  himself;  "love  and 
jealousy  are  stronger  than  fear  and  ambition!" 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
"THE  WITNESS   IS   DEAD." 

In  his  room  at  the  hotel  Col.  Montjoy  awaited  the  re 
turn  of  his  friend  Evan,  who  had  gone  to  find  out  how,  as 
he  expressed  it,  the  boys  were  getting  on  with  their  fight. 

"I  will  strike  the  trail  somewhere,"  he  said,  lightly. 
But  he  was  greatly  disturbed  over  Col.  Montjoy's  con 
cern,  and  noticed  at  once  the  bad  physical  effect  it  had 
on  him.  His  policy  was  to  make  light  of  the  matter, 
but  he  knew  it  was  serious. 

To  force  Royson  to  back  down  was  now  his  object; 
in  the  event  of  that  failing,  to  see  that  Morgan  had  a  fair 
show. 

The  colonel  had  removed  his  shoes  and  coat  and  was 
lying  on  the  bed  when  Evan  returned.  "I  think  I  have 
given  them  a  basis  of  settlement,"  said  the  general.  "I 
have  vouched  for  the  fact  that  the  statements  in  Royson's 
letter  are  erroneous.  Upon  my  declaration  he  can  retract 
and  apologize,  or  he  must  fight.  I  found  him  consulting 
with  Thomas  and  others,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  he 
was  looking  for  some  way  to  dodge." 

The  colonel  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "But  how 
could  you?" 

"Upon  my  faith  in  John  Morgan!  He  was  a  man  of 
honor!  He  would  never  have  left  his  property  to  this 


"THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD."  133 

man  and  put  him  upon  the  community  if  there  had  been 
a  cloud  upon  his  title  to  gentility,"  and  then  he  added, 
with  emotion:  "A  man  who  was  willing  to  give  his 
daughter  to  a  friend  can  risk  a  great  deal  to  honor  that 
friend's  memory." 

"There  is  but  one  Albert  Evan  in  the  world,"  said 
Montjoy,  after  a  long  silence. 

The  general  was  getting  himself  a  glass  of  wine. 
"Well,  there  is  but  one  such  Montjoy,  for  that  matter, 
but  we  two  old  fellows  lose  time  sitting  up  to  pay  each 
other  compliments!  There  is  much  to  be  done.  I  am 
going  out  to  see  Morgan;  he  is  so  new  here  he  may 
need  help!  You  stay  and  keep  quiet.  The  town  is  full 
of  excitement  over  this  affair,  and  people  watch  me  as 
if  I  were  a  curiosity.  You  can  study  on  politics  if  you 
will;  consider  the  proposition  that  if  Royson  retracts  we 
are  entitled  to  another  trial  over  yonder  in  the  lost 
county;  that  or  we  will  threaten  them  with  an  independ 
ent  race." 

"No!  I  am  too  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  stay  out 
honorably.  I  know  now  that  my  candidacy  was  a  mis 
take.  It  has  weakened  me  here  fatally." 

Col.  Montjoy  placed  his  hand  over  his  heart  wearily. 
The  general  brought  him  the  glass  of  wine  he  held. 

"Nonsense!  Too  many  cigars!  Here's  to  long  life, 
old  friend,  and  to  the  gallant  Fire-Eaters!"  He  laughed 
lightly  over  his  remembrance  of  the  checkmate  he  had 
accomplished,  buttoned  the  blue  coat  over  his  broad 
chest  and  started.  "I  am  going  now  to  look  in  upon  my 
outpost  and  see  what  arrangements  have  been  made  for 
the  night.  So  far  we  hold  the  strong  positions.  Look 
for  me  about  daylight!"  And,  lying  there  alone,  his 
friend  drifted  back  in  thought  to  Mary.  He  was  not  sat 
isfied. 

The  door  stood  open  at  Ilexhurst  when  the  general 
alighted.  There  was  no  answer  to  his  summon*;  he 
entered  the  lighted  hall  and  went  to  the  library.  Edward 
was  sleeping  quietly  upon  a  lounge. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  general,  cheerily,  "asleep  on 
guard !"  Edward  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Gen.  Evan!" 


134  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Exactly;  and  as  no  one  .answered  my  summons  to 
surrender  I  took  possession."  Apologizing,  Edward 
drew  a  chair,  and  they  became  seated. 

"Seriously,  my  young  friend,"  began  the  old  soldier. 
"I  was  in  the  city  to-night  and  have  learned  from  Col. 
Montjoy  of  the  infamy  perpetrated  upon  you.  My  days 
of  warfare  are  over,  but  I  could  not  sit  by  and  see  one 
to  whom  we  all  owe  so  much  imposed  upon.  Let  me 
add,  also,  that  I  was  very  much  charmed  with  you,  Mr. 
Morgan.  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you  in  the 
way  of  advice  and  guidance  in  this  matter  kindly  com 
mand  me.  I  might  say  the  same  thing  for  Montjoy, 
who  is  at  the  hotel,  but  unfortunately,  as  you  may  not 
know,  his  daughter-in-law  is  Mr.  Royson's  cousin,  and 
acting  upon  my  advice  he  is  silent  until  the  necessity 
for  action  arises.  I  know  him  well  enough  to  add  that 
you  can  rely  upon  his  sympathy,  and  if  needed,  his  aid. 
I  have  advised  him  to  take  no  action,  as  in  the  first 
place  he  is  not  needed,  and  in  the  second  it  may  bring 
about  an  estrangement  between  his  son  and  himself." 

Edward  was  very  grateful  and  expressed  himself  earn 
estly,  but  his  head  was  in  a  whirl.  He  was  thinking  of 
the  woman's  story,  and  of  Gerald. 

"Such  a  piece  of  infamy  as  is  embraced  in  that  publica 
tion,"  said  the  general,  when  finally  the  conversation 
went  direct  to  the  heart  of  the  trouble,  "was  never 
equaled  in  this  state.  Have  they  replied  to  your  note?" 

"Not  yet.     I  am  waiting  for  the  answer!" 

"And  your — cousin — is  he  here  to  receive  it?" 

"Gerald?  Yes,  he  is  here — that  is,  excuse  me,  I  will 
see!" 

Somewhat  alarmed  over  the  possibility  of  Gerald's  ab 
sence,  he  hurried  through  the  house  to  the  wing,  and 
then  into  the  glass-room.  Gerald  was  asleep.  The  in 
evitable  little  box  of  pellets  upon  his  table  told  the  sad 
story.  Edward  could  not  awaken  him. 

"It  is  unfortunate,  very,"  he  said,  re-entering  the  library 
hurriedly,  "but  Gerald  is  asleep  and  cannot  be  aroused. 
The  truth  is,  he  is  a  victim  of  opium.  The  poor  fellow 
is  now  beyond  cure,  I  am  afraid;  he  is  frail,  nervous, 


"THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD."  135 

excitable,  and  cannot  live  without  the  drug.  The  day 
has  been  a  very  trying  one  for  him,  and  this  is  the  first 
time  he  has  been  out  in  years!" 

"He  must  be  awakened/'  said  the  general.  "Of  course 
he  cannot,  in  the  event  that  these  fellows  want  to  fight, 
go  on  the  field,  and  then  his  relationship!  But  to-night! 
To-night  he  must  be  aroused!  Let  me  go  with  you." 
Edward  started  almost  in  terror. 

"It  might  not  be  well,  general — it  is  not  necessary — " 

"On  the  contrary,  a  strange  voice  may  have  more 
effect  than  yours — no  ladies  about?  Of  course  not! 
Lead  on,  I  follow."  Greatly  confused,  Edward  led  the 
way.  As  they  reached  the  wing  he  explained  the  fact 
of  the  glass-room,  the  whim,  the  fancy  of  an  imaginative 
mind,  and  then  they  entered. 

Gerald  was  sleeping,  as  was  his  habit,  with  one  arm 
extended,  the  other  under  his  head;  his  long  hair  clus 
tering  about  his  face.  The  light  was  burning  brightly, 
and  the  general  approached.  Thrilled  to  the  heart,  Ed 
ward  steeled  himself  for  a  shock.  It  was  well  he  did. 
The  general  bent  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
sleeper's  shoulder.  Then  he  stepped  quickly  back,  seized 
Edward  with  the  strength  of  a  giant  and  stood  there 
trembling,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  pale  face  on  the 
pillow. 

"Am  I  dreaming?"  he  asked,  in  a  changed  voice.  "Is 
this — the  young  man — you  spoke  of?" 

"It  is  Gerald  Morgan." 

"Strange!  Strange!  That  likeness!  The  likeness  of 
one  who  will  never  wake  again,  my  friend,  never!  Ex 
cuse  me;  I  was  startled,  overwhelmed!  I  would  have 
sworn  I  looked  upon  that  face  as  I  did  in  the  olden 
times,  when  I  used  to  go  and  stand  in  the  moonlight 
and  dream  above  it!" 

"Ah,"  said  Edward,  his  heart  turning  to  ice  within  him, 
"whose  was  it?"  The  answer  came  in  a  whisper. 

"It  was  my  wife's  face  first,  and  then  it  was  the  face 
of  my  daughter!'"  He  drew  himself  up  proudly,  and, 
looking  long  upon  the  sleeper,  said,  gently:  "They  shall 
not  waken  you,  poor  child.  Albert  Evan  will  take  your 
place !"  With  infinite  tenderness  he  brushed  back  a  lock 


136  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

of  hair  that  fell  across  the  white  brow  and  stood  watching 
him. 

Edward  turned  from  the  scene  with  a  feeling  that  it 
was  too  sacred  for  intrusion.  Over  the  sleeping  form 
stood  the  old  man.  A  generation  of  loneliness,  of  silence, 
of  dignified,  uncomplaining  manhood  lay  between  them. 
What  right  had  he,  an  alien,  to  be  dumb  when  a  word 
might  bring  hope  and  interest  back  to  that  saddened  life? 
Was  he  less  noble  than  the  man  himself — than  the  frail 
being  locked  in  the  deathlike  slumber? 

He  glanced  once  more  at  Gerald.  How  he  had  risen 
to  the  issue,  and  in  the  face  of  every  instinct  of  a  shrink 
ing  nature  had  done  his  part  until  the  delicate  machinery 
gave  way!  Suppose  their  positions  were  reversed;  that 
he  lay  upon  the  bed,  and  Gerald  stood  gazing  into  the 
night  through  the  dew-gemmed  glass,  possessed  of  such 
a  secret.  Would  he  hesitate?  No!  The  answer  formed 
itself  instantly — not  unless  he  had  base  blood  in  his  veins. 

It  was  that  taint  that  now  held  back  him,  Edward 
Morgan;  he  was  a  coward.  And  yet,  what  would  be  the 
effect  if  he  should  burst  out  in  that  strange  place  with 
his  fearful  secret?  There  would  be  an  outcry;  Rita 
would  be  dragged  in,  her  story  poured  forth,  and  on  him 
the  old  man's  eyes  would  be  turned  in  horror  and  pity. 
Then  the  published  card  would  stand  a  sentence  of  social 
degradation,  and  he  in  a  foreign  land  would  nurse  the 
memory  of  a  woman  and  his  disgrace.  And  Royson! 
He  ground  his  teeth. 

"I  will  settle  that  first,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper, 
"and  then  if  it  is  true  I  will  prove,  God  helping  me,  that 
His  spirit  can  animate  even  the  child  of  a  slave!"  He 
bowed  his  head  upon  his  breast  and  wept. 

Presently  there  came  to  him  a  consciousness  that  the 
black  shadow  pressing  against  the  glass  almost  at  his 
feet  was  more  than  a  shadow.  It  took  the  form  of  a 
human  being  and  moved;  then  the  glass  gave  way  and 
through  the  shivered  fragments  as  it  fell,  he  saw  the  face 
of  Rita  sink  from  view.  With  a  loud  cry  he  dashed  at 
the  door  and  sprang  into  the  darkness!  Her  tall  form 
lay  double  in  the  grass.  He  drew  her  into  the  path  of 
light  that  streamed  out  and  bent  above  her.  The  woman 


"THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD."  137 

struggled  to  speak,  moving  her  head  from  side  to  side 
and  lifting  it.  A  groan  burst  from  her  as  if  she  realized 
that  the  end  had  come  and  her  effort  would  be  useless. 
He,  too,  realized  it.  He  pointed  upward  quickly. 

"There  is  your  God,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "waiting!  Tell 
me  in  His  name,  am  I  your  child?  You  know!  A 
mother  never  forgets!  Answer — close  your  eyes — give 
me  a  sign  if  they  have  lied  to  you!" 

She  half-rose  in  a  frantic  struggle.  Her  eyes  seemed 
bursting  from  their  sockets,  and  her  lips  framed  her  last 
sentence  in  almost  a  shriek. 

"They  lied!" 

Edward  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant;  his  lips  echoing 
her  words.  "They  lied !"  The  gaslight  from  within  illu 
mined  his  features,  now  bright  with  triumph,  as  he 
looked  upward. 

The  old  general  rushed  out.  He  saw  the  prostrate 
form  and  fixed  eyes  of  the  corpse. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  horrified.  Edward  turned  to 
him,  dizzily;  his  gaze  followed  the  old  man's. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "the  nurse!  She  has  died  of  anxiety 
and  watching!"  A  loud  summons  from  the  ponderous 
knocker  echoed  in  the  house.  Edward,  excited,  had 
already  begun  to  move  away. 

"Hold!"  exclaimed  the  general,  "where  now?" 

"I  go  to  meet  the  slanderer  of  my  race!  God  have 
mercy  upon  him  now,  when  we  come  face  to  face!" 
His  manner  alarmed  the  general.  He  caught  him  by  the 
arm. 

"Easy  now,  my  young  friend;  this  poor  woman's  fate 
has  unnerved  you;  not  a  step  further."  He  led  Edward 
to  the  wing-room  and  forced  him  down  to  the  divan. 
"Stay  until  I  return!"  The  summons  without  had  been 
renewed;  the  general  responded  in  person  and  found 
Marsden  Thomas  at  the  door,  who  gazed  in  amazement 
upon  the  stately  form  before  him,  and  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  said,  stiffly: 

"I  have  a  communication  to  deliver  to  Gerald  Morgan. 
Will  you  kindly  summon  him,  general?" 

"I  know  your  errand,"  said  Evan,  blandly,  "and  you 
need  waste  no  ceremony  on  me.  Gerald  is  too  ill  to  act 


138  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

longer  for  Edward  Morgan.      I  take  his  place  to-night." 

"You!     Gen.  Evan!"' 

"Why  not?  Did  you  ever  hear  that  Albert  Evan  left 
a  friend  upon  the  field?  Come  in,  come  in,  Thomas; 
we  are  mixed  up  in  this  matter,  but  it  is  not  our  quarrel. 
I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Thomas  smiled ;  the  matter  was  to  end  in  a  farce. 

Without  realizing  it,  these  two  men  were  probably 
the  last  in  the  world  to  whom  should  have  fallen  an 
affair  of  honor  that  might  have  been  settled  by  con 
cessions.  The  bluff  old  general  defeated  Thomas'  efforts 
to  stand  on  formal  ground,  got  him  into  a  seat,  and  went 
directly  at  the  matter. 

"It  must  strike  you,  Thomas,  as  absurd  that  in  these 
days  men  cannot  settle  their  quarrels  peacefully.  There 
is  obliged  to  be  a  right  and  a  wrong  side  always,  and 
sometimes  the  right  side  has  some  fault  in  it  and  the 
wrong  side  some  justice.  No  man  can  hesitate,  when 
this  adjustment  has  been  made,  to  align  himself  with  one 
and  repudiate  the  other.  Now,  we  both  represent  friends, 
and  neither  of  us  can  suffer  them  to  come  out  of  this 
matter  smirched.  I  would  not  be  willing  for  Royson 
to  do  so,  and  certainly  not  for  Morgan.  If  we  can  bring 
both  parties  out  safely,  is  it  not  our  duty  to  do  so  ?  You 
will  agree  with  me!"  Thomas  said  without  hesitation: 

"I  waive  a  great  deal,  general,  on  your  account,  when 
I  discuss  this  matter  at  all;  but  I  certainly  cannot  enter 
into  the  merits  of  the  quarrel  unless  you  withdraw  your 
demand  upon  us.  You  have  demanded  a  retraction  of 
a  charge  made  by  us  or  satisfaction.  You  cannot  expect 
me  to  discuss  the  advisability  of  a  retraction  when  I  have 
here  a  note — " 

"Which  you  have  not  delivered,  and  which  I,  an  old 
man  sick  of  war  and  quarrels,  beg  that  you  will  not  de 
liver  until  we  have  talked  over  this  matter  fully.  Why 
cannot  Royson  retract,  when  he  has  my  assurance  that 
he  is  in  error?" 

''For  the  reason,  probably,  general,  that  he  does  not 
believe  your  statements — although  his  friends  do!"  Evan 
arose  and  paced  the  room.  Coming  back  he  stood  over 
the  young  man. 


"THE  WITNESS  IS  DEAD."  139 

"Did  he  say  so?     By  the  eternal—" 

"General,  suppose  we  settle  one  affair  at  a  time;  I 
herewith  hand  you,  as  Royson's  friend,  his  reply  to  the 
demand  of  Mr.  Morgan.  Now,  give  me  your  opinion 
as  to  the  locality  where  this  correspondence  can  be 
quietly  and  successfully  concluded,  in  the  event  that  your 
principal  wishes  to  continue  it."  Trembling  with  rage 
the  old  man  opened  the  message;  it  read: 

"Mr.  Edward  Morgan — Sir:  I  have  your  communica 
tion  of  this  date  handed  to  me  at  8  o'clock  to-night  by 
Mr.  Gerald  Morgan.  I  have  no  retraction  or  apology 
to  make.  Amos  Royson." 

Gen.  Evan  looked  upon  the  missive  sadly  and  long. 
He  placed  it  upon  the  table  and  resumed  his  seat,  saying: 

"Do  you  understand,  Mr.  Thomas,  that  what  I  have 
said  is  entirely  upon  my  own  responsibility  and  as  a  man 
who  thinks  his  age  and  record  have  given  him  a  privilege 
with  his  young  friends?" 

"Entirely,  general.  And  I  trust  you  understand  that 
I  am  without  the  privilege  of  age  and  record,  and  cannot 
take  the  same  liberties."  The  general  made  no  reply, 
but  was  looking  intently  upon  the  face  of  the  young  man. 
Presently  he  said,  earnestly: 

"Your  father  and  I  were  friends  and  stood  together  on 
many  a  bloody  field.  I  bore  him  in  my  arms  from  Shi- 
loh  and  gazed  upon  his  dead  face  an  hour  later.  No 
braver  man  ever  lived  than  William  Thomas.  I  believe 
you  are  the  worthy  son  of  a  noble  sire  and  incapable  of 
any  act  that  could  reflect  disgrace  upon  his  name." 

Thomas  was  deeply  touched,  and  silent. 

The  general  continued :  "You  cannot  link  yourself  to 
an  unjust  cause  and  escape  censure;  such  a  course  would 
put  you  at  war  with  yourself  and  at  war  with  those  who 
hope  to  see  you  add  new  honors  to  a  name  already  dear 
to  your  countrymen.  When  you  aid  and  abet  Amos 
Royson,  in  his  attempt  to  put  a  stigma  upon  Edward 
Morgan,  you  aid  and  abet  him  in  an  effort  to  do  that 
for  which  there  is  no  excuse.  Everything  stated  in  Roy- 
son's  letter,  and  especially  the  personal  part  of  it,  can  be 


140  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

easny  disproved."  Thomas  reflected  a  moment.  Finally 
he  said: 

"I  thank  you,  general,  for  your  kind  words.  The  matter 
is  not  one  within  my  discretion,  but  give  me  the  proofs 
you  speak  of,  and  I  will  make  Royson  withdraw,  if  possi 
ble,  or  abandon  the  quarrel  myself!" 

"I  have  given  my  word;  is  that  not  enough?" 

"On  that  only,  Mr.  Royson's  friends  require  him  to 
give  Mr.  Morgan  the  recognition  of  a  gentleman;  with 
out  it  he  would  not.  The  trouble  is,  you  can  be  mis 
taken."  Evan  reflected  and  a  look  of  trouble  settled 
upon  his  face. 

"Mr.  Thomas,  I  am  going  to  make  a  revelation  involv 
ing  the  honor  and  reputation  of  a  family  very  dear  to  me. 
I  do  it  only  to  save  bloodshed.  Give  me  your  word  of 
honor  that  never  in  any  way,  so  long  as  you  may  live,  will 
you  reveal  it.  I  shall  not  offer  my  unsupported  word;  I 
will  produce  a  witness." 

"You  have  my  word  of  honor  that  your  communication 
will  be  kept  sacred,"  said  Thomas,  greatly  interested.  The 
general  bowed  his  head.  Then  he  raised  his  hand  above 
the  little  call  bell ;  it  did  not  descend.  The  martial  figure 
for  a  moment  seemed  to  shrink  and  age.  When  the  gen 
eral  looked  at  length  toward  his  visitor,  he  said  in  a 
whisper: 

"The  witness  is  dead!"  Then  he  arose  to  his  feet.  "It 
is  too  late!"  he  added,  with  a  slight  gesture;  "we  will 
fight!" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE. 

From  that  moment  he  discussed  the  arrangements  for 
mally.  They  were  soon  made  and  Thomas  departed. 

Edward,  regaining  his  coolness  in  the  wing-room,  with 
the  assistance  of  Virdow,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the 
disturbance,  carried  the  body  of  Rita  to  her  house  in  the 
yard  and  sent  for  a  suburban  physician  near  at  hand, 


THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE.  141 

The  man  of  medicine  pronounced  the  woman  dead.  Ne 
groes  from  the  quarters  were  summoned  and  took  the 
body  in  charge.  These  arrangements  completed,  he  met 
the  general  in  the  hall. 

"A  settlement  is  impossible,"  said  the  latter,  sadly. 
"Get  your  buggy!  Efforts  may  be  made  by  arrests  to 
stop  this  affair.  You  must  go  home  with  me  to-night." 
Virdow  was  put  in  charge  of  the  premises  and  an  excuse 
made. 

Alone,  Edward  returned  to  the  side  of  the  dead  woman. 
Long  and  earnestly  he  studied  her  face,  and  at  last  said: 
"Farewell!"  Then  he  went  to  Gerald's  room  and  laid  his 
lips  upon  the  marble  brow  of  the  sleeper.  Upstairs  he 
put  certain  papers  and  the  little  picture  in  his  pocket, 
closed  the  mother's  room  door  and  locked  it.  He  turned 
and  looked  back  upon  the  white-columned  house  as  he 
rode  away.  Only  eight  weeks  had  passed  since  he  first 
entered  its  doors. 

Before  leaving,  the  general  had  stabled  his  horse  and 
telephoned  Montjoy  at  the  hotel.  Taking  a  rear  street 
he  passed  with  Edward  through  the  city  and  before  day 
light  drew  up  in  front  of  the  Cedars. 

Dueling  at  the  time  these  events  transpired  was  sup 
posed  to  be  dead  in  the  south,  and  practically  it  was.  The 
press  and  pulpit,  the  changed  system  of  business  and  la 
bor,  state  laws,  but,  above  all  these,  occupation  had  ren 
dered  it  obsolete;  but  there  was  still  an  element  that  re 
sorted  to  the  code  for  the  settlement  of  personal  griev 
ances,  and  sometimes  the  result  was  a  bloody  meeting. 
The  new  order  of  things  was  so  young  that  it  really  took 
more  courage  to  refuse  to  fight  than  to  fight  a  duel.  The 
legal  evasion  was  the  invitation  to  conclude  the  corre 
spondence  outside  the  state. 

The  city  was  all  excitement.  The  morning  papers  had 
columns  and  black  head  lines  setting  forth  all  the  facts 
that  could  be  obtained,  and  more  besides.  There  was 
also  a  brief  card  from  Edward  Morgan,  denouncing  the 
author  of  the  letter  which  had  appeared  in  the  extra  and 
denying  all  charges  brought  against  him,  both  personal 
and  political. 

At  Mr.  Royson's  boarding  place  nothing  had  been  seen 


142  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

of  him  since  the  publication  of  the  card,  and  his  office 
was  closed.  Who  it  was  that  acted  for  Edward  Morgan 
was  a  matter  of  surmise,  but  Col.  Montjoy  and  Gen.  Evan 
were  in  the  city  and  quartered  at  the  hotel.  The  latter  had 
gone  to  Ilexhurst  and  had  not  returned. 

Peace  warrants  for  Morgan  and  Royson  had  been  is 
sued  and  placed  in  the  hands  of  deputies,  and  two  of 
them  had  watched  outside  a  glass  room  at  Ilexhurst 
waiting  for  a  man  who  was  asleep  inside,  and  who  had 
been  pointed  out  to  them  by  a  German  visitor  as  Mr. 
Morgan,  to  awaken.  The  sleeper,  however,  proved  to  be 
Gerald  Morgan,  an  invalid. 

At  noon  a  bulletin  was  posted  to  the  effect  that  Thomas 
and  Royson  had  been  seen  on  a  South  Carolina  train; 
then  another  that  Gen.  Evan  and  Edward  Morgan  were 
recognized  in  Alabama;  then  came  Tennessee  rumors. 

The  truth  was,  so  far  as  Edward  Morgan  was  con 
cerned,  he  was  awakened  before  noon,  given  a  room  in  a 
farmhouse,  remote  from  the  Evan  dwelling,  and  there 
settled  down  to  write  important  letters.  One  of  these  he 
signed  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  The  last  one  con 
tained  the  picture,  some  papers  and  a  short  note  to  Gen. 
Evan;  also  Edward's  surmises  as  to  Gerald's  identity. 
The  other  letters  were  for  Virdow,  Gerald  and  Mary.  He 
had  not  signed  the  letter  when  Evan  entered  the  rtiom, 
but  was  sitting  with  his  arms  folded  above  it  and  his  head 
resting  on  them. 

"Letter  writing!"  said  the  general.  "That  is  the  worst 
feature  of  these  difficulties."  He  busied  himself  with  a 
case  he  carried,  turning  his  back.  Edward  sealed  his  let 
ter  and  completed  his  package. 

''Well,"  he  said,  rising.  "I  am  now  at  your  service, 
Gen.  Evan!" 

"The  horses  are  ready.  We  will  start  at  once  and  I 
will  give  you  instructions  on  the  way." 

The  drive  was  thirty  miles,  to  a  remote  station  upon  a 
branch  road,  where  the  horses  were  left. 

Connection  was  made  with  the  main  line,  yet  more 
distant,  and  the  next  dawn  found  them  at  a  station  on  the 
Florida  border. 

They  had  walked  to  the  rendezvous  and  were  waiting; 


THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE.  143 

Edward  stood  in  deep  thought,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  va 
cancy,  his  appearance  suggesting  profound  melancholy. 
The  general  watched  him  furtively  and  finally  with  uneas 
iness.  After  all,  the  young  man  was  a  stranger  to  him. 
He  had  been  drawn  into  the  difficulty  by  his  sympathies, 
and  based  his  own  safety  upon  his  ability  to  read  men. 
Experience  upon  the  battle  field,  however,  had  taught  him 
that  men  who  have  never  been  under  fire  sometimes  fail  at 
the  last  moment  from  a  physical  weakness  unsuspected  by 
even  themselves.  What  if  this  man  should  fail?  He  went 
up  to  Edward  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"My  young  friend,  when  you  are  as  old  as  I  you  will 
realize  that  in  cases  like  these  the  less  a  man  thinks  the 
better  for  his  nerves.  Circumstances  have  removed  you 
from  the  realm  of  intellect  and  heart.  You  are  now  sim 
ply  the  highest  type  of  an  animal,  bound  to  preserve  self 
by  a  formula,  and  that  is  the  blunt  fact."  Edward  seemed 
to  listen  without  hearing. 

"General,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  do  not  want  your 
services  in  this  affair  under  a  misapprehension.  I  have 
obeyed  directions  up  to  this  moment,  but  before  the  mat 
ter  goes  further  I  must  tell  you  what  is  in  my  mind.  My 
quarrel  with  Amos  Royson  is  because  of  his  injury  to  me 
and  his  injury  to  my  friends  through  me.  He  has  made 
charges,  and  the  customs  of  this  country,  its  traditions, 
make  those  charges  an  injury.  I  believe  that  a  man  has 
a  right  to  resent  any  injury  and  punish  the  spirit  behind 
it."  Gen.  Evan  was  puzzled.  He  waited  in  silence. 

"I  did  not  make  these  fine  distinctions  at  first,  but 
the  matter  has  been  upon  my  mind  and  now  I  wish  you 
to  understand  that  if  this  poor  woman  were  my  mother 
I  would  not  fight  a  duel  even  if  I  could,  simply  because 
some  one  told  me  so  in  print.  If  it  were  true,  this  story, 
there  would  be  no  shame  to  me  in  it;  there  would  be  no 
shame  to  me  unless  I  deserted  her.  If  it  were  true  I 
would  be  her  son  in  deed  and  truth.  I  would  take  her 
by  the  hand  and  seek  her  happiness  in  some  other  land. 
For,  as  God  is  my  judge,  to  me  the  world  holds  nothing 
so  sacred  as  a  mother,  and  I  would  not  exchange  the 
affection  of  such  were  she  the  lowliest  in  the  rand,  for  all 
the  privileges  of  any  society.  It  is  right  that  you  should 


144  SONS    AND  FATHERS. 

know  the  heart  of  the  man  you  are  seconding.  If  I  fall 
my  memory  shall  be  clear  of  the  charge  of  unmanliness." 

Gen.  Evan's  appearance,  under  less  tragic  circum 
stances,  would  have  been  comical.  For  one  instant,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  suffered  from  panic.  His 
eyes,  after  a  moment  of  wide-open  amazement,  turned 
helplessly  toward  the  railroad  and  he  began  to  feel  for 
his  glasses.  When  he  got  them  adjusted  he  studied  his 
companion  critically.  But  the  explosion  that  should  have 
followed  when  the  situation  shaped  itself  in  the  old  slave 
holder's  mind  did  not  come.  He  saw  before  him  the 
form  of  his  companion  grow  and  straighten,  and  the 
dark  eyes,  softened  by  emotion,  shining  fearlessly  into 
his.  It  was  the  finest  appeal  that  could  have  been  made 
to  the  old  soldier.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  impul 
sively. 

"Unorthodox,  but,  by  Georgia,  I  like  it,"  he  said. 

The  up  train  brought  Royson  and  Thomas  and  a  sur 
geon  from  a  Florida  town.  Evan  was  obliged  to  rely 
upon  a  local  doctor. 

At  sunrise  the  two  parties  stood  in  the  shadow  of  live 
oaks,  not  far  apart.  Evan  and  Thomas  advanced  and  sa 
luted  each  other  formally.  Evan  waited  sadly  for  the 
other  to  speak ;  there  was  yet  time  for  an  honorable  set 
tlement.  Men  in  the  privacy  of  their  own  rooms  think 
one  way,  and  think  another  way  in  the  solemn  silence  of 
a  woodland  sunrise. 

And  preceding  it  all  in  this  instance  there  had  been 
hours  for  reflection  and  hours  of  nervous  apprehension. 
The  latter  told  plainly  upon  Amos  Royson.  White  and 
haggard,  he  moved  restlessly  about  his  station,  watching 
the  seconds  and  ever  and  anon  stealing  side-long  glances 
at  Morgan.  Why,  he  asked  himself,  did  the  man  stare  at 
him  with  that  fixed,  changeless  expression?  Was  he 
seeking  to  destroy  his  nerves,  to  overpower  him  with 
superior  will?  No.  The  gaze  was  simply  contemplative; 
the  gaze  of  one  looking  upon  a  landscape  and  consider 
ing  its  features.  But  it  was  a  never-ending  one  to  all  ap 
pearances. 

Hope  died  away  from  the  general's  heart  at  the  first 
words  of  Thomas. 


THE  DUEL  AT  SUNRISE.  145 

"We  are  here,  Gen.  Evan.  What  is  your  pleasure  as  to 
the  arrangements?  I  would  suggest  that  we  proceed  at 
once  to  end  this  affair.  I  notice  that  we  are  beginning 
to  attract  attention  and  people  are  gathering." 

The  general  drew  him  aside  and  they  conversed.  The 
case  of  pistols  was  opened,  the  weapons  examined  and 
carefully  loaded  and  then  the  ground  was  stepped  off — 
fifteen  paces  upon  a  north  and  south  line,  with  the  low, 
spreading  mass  of  live  oaks  behind  each  station.  There 
were  no  perpendicular  lines,  no  perspective,  to  influence 
the  aim  of  either  party.  There  was  really  no  choice  of 
positions,  but  one  had  to  be  chosen.  A  coin  flashed  in 
the  sunlight  as  it  rose  and  descended. 

"We  win,"  said  Thomas,  simply,  "and  choose  the  north 
stand.  Take  your  place."  The  general  smiled  grimly. 

"I  have  faced  northward  before,"  he  said.  He  stood 
upon  the  point  designated,  and  beckoned  to  Edward. 
Then  the  latter  was  forced  to  speak.  He  still  gazed  fix 
edly  upon  his  antagonist.  The  general  looked  steadily 
into  his  pale  face,  and,  pointing  to  his  own  track  as  he 
moved  aside,  said: 

"Keep  cool,  now,  my  boy,  and  fire  instantly.  These 
pistols  are  heavier  than  revolvers;  I  chose  them  because 
the  recoil  of  a  revolver  is  destructive  of  an  amateur's  aim. 
These  will  shoot  to  the  spot.  Keep  cool,  keep  cool,  for 
God's  sake,  and  remember  the  insult!" 

"Have  no  fear  for  me,"  said  Morgan.  "I  will  prove 
that  no  blood  of  a  slave  is  here !" 

He  took  the  weapon  and  stood  in  position.  He  had 
borne  in  mind  all  the  morning  the  directions  given  by 
Gerald;  he  knew  every  detail  of  that  figure  facing  him  in 
the  now  bright  sunlight;  he  had  sketched  it  in  detail  to 
the  mouth  that  uttered  its  charge  against  him.  The  hour 
might  pass  with  no  disaster  to  him ;  he  might  fall  a  corpse 
or  a  cripple  for  life ;  but  so  long  as  life  lasted  this  picture 
would  remain:  A  man  with  a  hard,  pale  face,  a  white 
shirt  front,  dark  trousers,  hand  clasping  nervously  a 
weapon,  and  behind  all  the  deep  green  of  the  oaks,  with 
their  chiaroscuro.  Only  one  thing  would  be  missing; 
the  picture  in  mind,  clear  cut  and  perfect  in  every  other 
detail,  lacked  a  mouth ! 
10 


146  SONS   AND    FATHERS. 

Some  one  is  calling  to  them. 

"Are  you  ready,  gentlemen?"  'Twas  the  hundredth 
part  of  a  second,  but  within  it  he  answered  "yes,"  ready 
to  put  the  pencil  to  that  last  feature — to  complete  the 
picture  for  all  time! 

"Fire!"  He  raised  his  brush  and  touched  the  spot; 
there  was  a  crash,  a  shock,  and — what  were  they  doing? 
His  picture  had  fallen  from  its  frame  and  they  were  lift 
ing  it.  But  it  was  complete;  the  carmine  was  spattered 
all  over  the  lower  face.  He  heard  the  general's  voice: 

"Are  you  hurt,  Edward?"  and  the  pistol  was  taken 
from  his  grasp. 

"Hurt!  No,  indeed!  But  I  seemed  to  have  spoiled 
my  painting,  general.  Look !  My  brush  must  have  slip 
ped;  the  paint  was  too  thin." 

The  general  hurried  away. 

"Keep  your  place;  don't  move  an  inch!  Can  I  be  of  as 
sistance,  gentlemen?"  he  continued  to  the  opposite  party ; 
"our  surgeon  can  aid  you,  my  principal  being  uninjured." 
He  paused;  an  exclamation  of  horror  escaped  him.  The 
mouth  and  nose  of  Royson  seemed  crushed  in,  and  he 
was  frantically  spitting  broken  teeth  from  a  bloody  gap 
where  his  mouth  had  been.  The  surgeons  worked  rap 
idly  to  stay  the  flow  of  crimson.  While  thus  busy  the 
general  in  wonder  picked  up  Royson's  pistol.  Its  trigger 
and  guard  were  gone.  He  looked  at  the  young  man's 
right  hand;  the  forefinger  was  missing. 

"An  ugly  wound,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "but  not  fatal, 
I  think.  The  ball  struck  the  guard,  cut  away  a  finger, 
and  drove  the  weapon  against  the  mouth  and  nose." 

The  surgeon  looked  up. 

"You  are  right,  I  think.  A  bad  disfigurement  of  those 
features,  but  not  a  dangerous  wound."  Thomas  saluted. 

"I  have  to  announce  my  principal  disabled,  general." 

"We  are  then  satisfied." 

Returning  to  Edward,  who  was  quietly  contemplating 
the  scene  with  little  apparent  interest,  he  said,  almost 
gayly: 

"A  fine  shot,  Edward;  a  fine  shot!  His  pistol  saved 
him!  If  he  had  raised  it  an  instant  later  he  would  have 
been  struck  fairly  in  the  mouth  by  your  bullet!  Let  us 
be  going." 


THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL.        147 

"It  is  perhaps  fortunate  that  my  shot  was  fired  when 
it  was,"  said  Edward.  "I  have  a  bullet  hole  through  the 
left  side  of  my  shirt."  The  general  looked  at  the  spot 
and  then  at  the  calm  face  of  the  speaker. 

He  extended  his  hand  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL. 

Col.  Montjoy  returned  home  early.  He  rode  into  the 
yard  and  entered  the  house  with  as  much  unconcern  as 
he  could  affect.  Annie  met  him  at  the  door  with  an  un 
usual  display  of  interest.  Had  he  rested  well?  Was  not 
the  hotel  warm,  and — was  there  anything  of  interest 
stirring  in  the  city?  To  all  of  these  questions  he  re 
sponded  guardedly  and  courteously.  Mary's  white  face 
questioned  him.  He  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"And  how  is  the  little  mamma  to-day — have  her  eyes 
given  her  any  more  trouble?" 

"She  is  staying  in  the  darkened  room  to  avoid  the 
light,"  said  the  girl.  He  went  to  her  and  the  two  young 
women  were  left  alone.  Annie  was  smiling  and  bent 
upon  aggravation. 

"I  think  I  will  ride  in,"  she  said  at  length.  "There  is 
something  afoot  that  is  being  kept  from  me.  Amos  Roy- 
son  is  my  cousin  and  I  have  a  right  to  know  if  he  is  in 
trouble."  Mary  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  At  last  she 
said: 

"A  man  having  written  such  a  letter  must  expect  to 
find  himself  in  trouble — and  danger,  too."  The  other 
woman  laughed  contemptuously. 

"I  did  not  say  danger !  Amos  has  little  to  fear  from  the 
smooth-faced,  milk-and-water  man  he  has  exposed." 

"Wait  and  see,"  was  the  reply.  "Amos  Royson  is  a 
coward;  he  will  not  only  find  himself  in  danger,  but  if 
necessary  to  save  himself  from  a  cowhiding  will  involve 
other  people — even  a  woman!" 


148  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  have  not  always  thought 
him  a  coward;  you  have  accepted  his  attentions  and 
would  have  married  him  if  you  had  the  chance."  Mary 
looked  up  quickly. 

"I  treated  him  with  politeness  because  he  was  your 
cousin ;  that  is  all.  As  for  marriage  with  him,  that  is  too 
absurd  even  to  have  occurred  to  me." 

Annie  ordered  Isam  to  bring  her  pony  carriage,  and 
as  she  waited  Mary  watched  her  in  silence  and  with  a 
strange  expression  upon  her  face.  When  her  father  re 
turned  she  said,  resolutely: 

"Annie,  I  was  awake  last  night  and  heard  a  horse  com 
ing.  Thinking  it  might  be  papa,  although  the  pace  was 
rather  fast  for  him,  I  went  out  to  the  gate.  There  was  a 
negro  with  a  note  for  you  from  Mr.  Royson.  Mamma 
had  just  got  to  sleep  and  I  was  afraid  of  waking  her,  so 
I  sent  Mr.  Royson  word  to  see  papa  at  the  hotel." 

The  sister-in-law  seized  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"By  what  right,  miss,  do  you  meddle  with  my  business ! 
It  may  have  been  a  question  of  a  man's  life!  You  have 
ruined  everything!"  She  was  trembling  with  rage.  Mary 
faced  her  resolutely. 

"And  it  may  have  been  a  question  of  a  man's  honor. 
In  either  case,  my  father  is  the  one  to  consult!" 

"Sit  down,  both  of  you!  Annie — Mary,  I  desire  this 
matter  to  end  at  .once !"  Col.  Montjoy  spoke  calmly  but 
firmly.  He  retained  his  clasp  upon  his  daughter's  hand 
and  gradually  as  he  talked  drew  her  to  his  knees. 

"There  is  a  serious  difficulty  pending  between  Mr. 
Morgan  and  Amos  Royson,  as  you  both  probably  know," 
he  said,  quietly.  "The  matter  is  in  good  hands,  however, 
and  I  think  will  be  satisfactorily  arranged.  I  do  not 
know  which  were  better,  to  have  delivered  Amos'  note 
or  not.  It  was  a  question  Mary  had  to  decide  upon  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  She  took  a  safe  course,  at  least. 
But  it  is  unseemly,  my  children,  to  quarrel  over  it!  Drop 
the  matter  now  and  let  affairs  shape  themselves.  We 
cannot  take  one  side  or  the  other."  Annie  made  no  re 
ply,  but  her  lips  wore  their  ironical  smile  as  she  moved 
away. 

Mary  hid  her  face  upon  her  father's  breast  and  wept 


THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL.       149 

softly.  She  knew  that  he  did  not  blame  her,  and  she 
knew  by  intuition  that  she  had  done  right,  but  she  was 
not  satisfied.  No  shadow  should  come  between  her  father 
and  herself. 

"I  was  certain,"  she  said,  "that  there  was  something 
wrong  in  that  note.  You  remember  what  I  told  you. 
And  I  was  determined  that  those  two  people  should  not 
hatch  up  any  more  mischief  in  this  house.  Mr.  Morgan's 
safety  might  have  depended  upon  keeping  them  apart." 
The  colonel  laughed  and  shook  his  head.  But  he  only 
said: 

"If  it  will  help  clear  up  your  skies  a  little,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  I  would  not  have  had  that  note  delivered 
last  night  for  half  this  plantation."  She  was  satisfied 
then. 

"Who  ordered  the  cart,  Isam?"  The  negro  was  at  the 
gate. 

"Young  mis',  sah.    She  goin'  to  town." 

"Well,  you  can  put  it  back.  It  will  not  be  necessary 
for  her  to  go  now.  Annie,"  he  said,  turning  to  that  lady, 
as  she  appeared  in  the  door,  "I  have  sent  the  cart  back.  I 
prefer  that  none  of  my  family  be  seen  upon  the  streets 
to-day."  There  was  an  unwonted  tone  in  his  voice  which 
she  did  not  dare  disregard.  With  a  furious  look,  which 
only  Mary  saw,  she  returned  to  her  room.  A  negro  upon 
a  mule  brought  a  note.  It  read: 

"Dear  Norton:  All  attempts  at  settlement  have  failed. 
I  would  like  to  see  you,  but  think  you  had  better  maintain 
strict  neutrality.  Will  wire  you  to-morrow.  A.  E." 

"There  is  no  answer,"  he  said  to  the  boy.  And  then, 
greatly  depressed,  he  went  to  his  room.  Mary,  who  read 
every  thought  correctly,  knew  that  the  matter  was  unset 
tled  and  that  her  father  was  hopeless.  She  went  about 
her  duties  steadily,  but  with  her  heart  breaking.  The 
chickens,  pigeons,  the  little  kids,  the  calves — none  of 
them  felt  the  tragedy  in  their  lives.  Their  mistress  was 
grave  and  inappreciative ;  nothing  more.  But  her  eyes 
were  not  closed.  She  saw  little  Jerry  armed  with  a  note 
go  out  on  the  mare  across  the  lower-creek  bridge,  and 


150  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

the  expectant  face  of  Annie  for  two  hours  or  more  in 
every  part  of  the  house  that  commanded  a  view  of  that 
unused  approach. 

Then  Jerry  came  back  and  went  to  the  sister-in-law's 
door.  He  had  not  reached  his  quarters  before  Mary  called 
him  to  help  her  catch  a  fractious  hen.  Then  she  got  him 
into  the  dining-room  and  cut  an  enormous  slice  of  iced 
cake. 

"Jerry,"  she  said,  "how  would  you  like  that?"  Jerry's 
white  eyes  and  teeth  shone  resplendent.  He  shifted  him 
self  to  his  left  foot  and  laughed.  "Tell  me  where  you 
have  been  and  it  is  yours."  Jerry  looked  abashed  and 
studied  a  silver  quarter  he  held  in  his  hand.  Then  he 
glanced  around  cautiously. 

"Honest,  missy?" 

"Honest!  Quick,  or  I  put  the  cake  back."  She  made 
a  feint. 

"Been  to  town." 

"Of  course.       Who  was  the  note  for?" 

"Mr.  Royson." 

"Did  he  answer  it?" 

"No'm.  Couldn't  find  him.  Er  nigger  tole  me  he  gone 
ter  fight  wid  Mr.  Morgan,  and  everybody  waitin'  ter  hear 
de  news." 

"You  can — go — Jerry.  There,"  she  handed  him  the 
cake,  and,  walking  unsteadily,  went  to  her  room.  She 
did  not  come  out  until  supper  time  and  then  her  face  was 
proof  that  the  "headache"  was  not  feigned. 

And  so  into  the  night.  She  heard  the  doors  open  and 
shut,  the  sound  of  her  fathers  footsteps  on  the  porch  as 
he  came  and  went.  She  went  out  and  joined  him,  taking 
his  arm. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  after  awhile,  "you  need  not  keep  it 
from  me.  I  know  all.  They  did  not  settle  it.  Mr.  Mor 
gan  and  Mr.  Royson  have  gone  to  fight."  She  could  not 
proceed.  Her  father  laid  his  hand  upon  hers. 

"It  will  all  come  out  right,  Mary;  it  will  all  come  out 
right."  Presently  he  said:  "Amos  used  to  come  here.  I 
hope  you  are  not  interested  in  him." 

"No,"  she  said  bitterly,  "I  could  never  think  much  of 
Annie's  relatives.  One  in  the  family  is  enough." 


THE  SHADOW  OVER  THE  HALL.        151 

"Hush,  my  child;  everything  must  give  way  now  on 
Norton's  account.  Don't  forget  him.  But  for  Norton  I 
would  have  settled  this  matter  in  another  way." 

"Yes,  and  but  for  him  there  would  never  have  been  a 
necessity.  Amos  depended  upon  his  relationship  to  keep 
you  out  of  it."  Col.  Montjoy  had  long  unconsciously  re 
lied  upon  the  clear  mind  of  the  girl,  but  he  was  not  pre 
pared  for  this  demonstration  of  its  wisdom.  He  won 
dered  anew  as  he  paced  the  floor  in  silence.  She  contin 
ued:  "But  Amos  is  only  the  tool,  papa;  all  of  us  have 
an  enemy  here  in  the  house.  Annie " 

"Hush !  Hush !"  he  whispered,  "don't  say  it.  It  seems 
too  awful  to  think  of !  Annie  is  foolish!  She  must  never 
know,  on  Norton's  account,  that  she  is  in  any  way  sus 
pected  of  complicity  in  this  matter."  And  then  in  silence 
they  waited  for  dawn. 

At  last  the  merciful  sun  rolled  away  the  shadows. 
Breakfast  was  a  sad  affair.  All  escaped  from  it  as  soon 
as  possible. 

It  was  a  fateful  day — 7,  8,  9  o'clock.  The  matter  was 
ended;  but  how?  Mary's  haggard  face  questioned  her 
father  at  every  turn.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  went 
to  see  her  pets  and  charges.  But  still  no  word  between 
them.  She  would  not  admit  her  interest  in  Edward  Mor 
gan,  nor  would  he  admit  to  himself  that  she  had  an  inter 
est  at  stake. 

And  then  toward  noon  there  came  a  horseman,  who 
placed  a  message  in  his  hands.  He  read  it  and  handed 
it  to  Mary.  If  he  had  not  smiled  she  could  not  have  read 
it.  One  word  only  was  there : 

"Safe!" 

Her  father  was  at  the  moment  unfolding  an  "extra." 
She  read  it  with  him  in  breathless  interest.  Following 
an  unusual  display  of  head  lines  came  an  accurate  account 
of  the  duel.  Only  a  small  part  of  the  padded  narrative  is 
reproduced  here: 

"Royson  was  nervous  and  excited  and  showed  the  ef 
fects  of  unrest.  But  Morgan  stood  like  a  statue.  For 
some  reason  he  never  moved  his  eyes  from  his  adversary 
a  moment  after  they  reached  the  field.  Both  men  fired  at 
the  command,  their  weapons  making  but  one  report. 


152  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

Some  think,  however,  that  Morgan  was  first  by  the  hun 
dredth  part  of  a  second,  and  this  is  possible,  as  the  single 
report  sounded  like  a  crash  or  a  prolonged  explosion. 
Royson  fell,  and  it  was  supposed  was  certainly  killed. 
He  presented  a  frightful  appearance  instantly,  being  cov 
ered  with  blood.  It  was  quickly  ascertained,  however, 
that  he  was  not  dangerously  hurt,  his  opponent's  shot 
having  cut  off  a  finger  and  the  pistol  guard,  and  had 
hurled  the  heavy  weapon  into  his  face.  He  escaped  with 
a  broken  nose  and  the  loss  of  his  front  teeth. 

"Morgan,  who  had  preserved  his  wonderful  coolness 
from  the  first,  received  a  bullet  through  a  fold  of  his  shirt 
that  darkened  the  skin  to  the  left  of^his  heart.  It  was  a 
narrow  escape.  Parties  took  the  up  train." 

The  extra  went  on  to  say  that  since  the  first  reading  of 
the  original  card  the  public  mind  had  undergone  a  revul 
sion  in  Morgan's  favor;  a  feeling  greatly  stimulated  by 
the  fact  that  Gen.  Evan  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  that 
gentleman;  had  vouched  for  him  in  every  respect  and 
was  acting  as  his  second.  When  the  colonel  had  finished 
the  thrilling  news  he  noticed  that  Mary's  head  was  in  his 
lap,  and  felt  tears  upon  his  hand  above  which  her  own 
were  clasped.  Annie  was  looking  on,  cold  and  white. 

"There  has  been  a  duel,  my  daughter,"  he  said  to  her 
kindly,  "and,  fortunately,  without  alarming  results.  Mr. 
Royson  lost  a  finger,  I  believe,  and  received  a  bruise  in 
the  face;  that  is  all.  Nothing  serious.  It  might  have 
been  very  much  worse.  Here  is  the  paper,"  he  concluded, 
"probably  an  exaggerated  account."  She  took  it  in  si 
lence  and  returned  to  her  room.  She  ran  her  eye  through 
every  sentence  without  reading  and  at  last  threw  the 
sheet  aside. 

Only  those  who  knew  the  whole  character  of  Annie 
Montjoy  would  have  understood.  She  was  looking  for 
her  name ;  it  was  not  there.  Her  smiling  face  was  proof 
enough. 

Long  they  sat,  father  and  daughter,  his  hand  still  strok 
ing  lightly  her  bowed  head.  At  last  he  said,  very  gently, 
the  hand  trembling  a  little: 

"This  has  been  a  hard  trial  for  us  both — for  us  both! 
I  am  glad  it  is  over !  Morgan  is  too  fine  a  fellow  to  have 


THE  PROFILE  ON  THE  MOON.  153 

been  sacrificed  to  this  man's  hatred  and  ambition."  She 
looked  up,  her  face  wet  and  flushed. 

"There  was  more  than  that,  papa." 

"More?    How  could  there  be?" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  said,  bravely:  "Mr.  Royson 
has  more  than  once  asked  me  to  marry  him."  The  col 
onel's  face  grew  black  with  sudden  rage. 

"The  scoundrel!" 

"And  he  has  imagined  that  because  Mr.  Morgan  came 
here  to  help  your  election — oh,  I  cannot."  She  turned 
hastily  and  went  away  in  confusion. 

And  still  the  colonel  sat  and  thought  with  clouded  face. 

"I  must  ask  Evan,"  he  said. 

"Colonel,  Mis'  Calline  says  come  deir,  please."  A 
servant  stood  by  him.  He  arose  and  went  into  his  wife's 
room.  She  was  standing  by  the  open  window,  its  light 
flooding  the  apartment,  her  bandages  removed. 

"Why,  Caroline,  you  are  imprudent,  don't  you  know? 
What  is  it,  my  dear?  She  was  silent  and  rigid,  a  living 
statue  bathed  in  the  glory  of  the  autumn  sun.  She  waited 
until  she  felt  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Norton,"  she  said,  simply,  but  with  infinite  pathos,  "I 
am  afraid  that  I  have  seen  your  loved  face  for  the  last 
time.  I  am  blind!"  He  took  her  in  his  arms — the  form 
that  even  age  could  not  rob  of  its  girlishness — and  pressed 
her  face  to  his  breast.  It  had  come  at  last.  His  tears  fell 
for  the  first  time  since  boyhood. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  PROFILE   ON  THE   MOON. 

Virdow  felt  the  responsibility  of  his  position.  He  had 
come  on  a  scientific  errand  and  found  himself  plunged 
into  a  tragedy.  And  there  were  attendant  responsibilities, 
the  most  serious  of  which  was  the  revelation  to  Gerald 
of  what  had  occurred. 

The  young  man  precipitated  the  crisis.    The  deputies 


154  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

gone,  he  wanted  his  coffee;  it  had  not  failed  him  in  a 
lifetime.  Again  and  again  he  rung  his  bell,  and  finally 
from  the  door  of  his  wing-room  called  loudly  for  Rita. 
Then  the  professor  saw  that  the  time  for  action  had  come. 
The  watchers  about  the  body  were  consulting.  None 
cared  to  face  that  singular  being  of  whom  they  felt  a 
superstitious  dread,  but  if  they  did  not  come  to  him  he 
would  finally  go  to  them.  What  would  be  the  result  of 
his  unexpected  discovery  of  the  tragedy?  It  might  be  dis 
astrous.  He  would  make  an  effort  to  deaden  the  blow. 

He  drew  Gerald  gently  into  his  room  and  closed  the 
door.  As  he  spoke,  he  removed  his  glasses  from  time  to 
time,  carefully  wiping  and  replacing  them,  his  faded 
eyes  beaming  in  sympathy  and  anxiety  upon  his  young 
acquaintance. 

"Herr  Gerald,"  he  began,  "you  know  the  human 
heart?"  Gerald  frowned  and  surveyed  him  with  impa 
tience. 

"Well?"  he  said,  waiting.  The  little  man  nodded  his 
head. 

"Sometimes  at  last  the  little  valve,  as  you  call  it — 
sometimes  the  little  valve  grows  weak,  and  when  the 
blood  leaps  out  too  quickly  and  can't  run  on  quickly 
enough — you  understand — it  comes  back  suddenly  again 
and  drives  the  valve  lid  back  the  wrong  way." 

"Then  it  is  a  ruined  piece  of  machinery." 

"So,"  said  the  professor,  sadly;  "you  have  stated  it 
correctly.  So,  Rita — she  had  an  old  heart — and  it  is 
ruined!" 

Gerald  gazed  upon  him  in  doubt,  but  fearful. 

"You  mean  Rita  is  dead?" 

"Yes,"  said  Virdow.  "Poor  Rita!"  Gerald  studied  the 
face  before  him  curiously,  passed  his  hand  across  his 
brow,  as  if  to  clear  away  a  cloud,  and  then  went  out  across 
the  yard.  The  watchers  fled  at  his  approach.  In  the  little 
room  he  came  upon  the  body.  The  woman,  dressed  in 
her  best  but  homely  attire,  lay  with  her  hands  crossed 
upon  her  bosom,  her  face  calm  and  peaceful.  Upon  her 
lips  was  that  strange  smile  which  sometimes  comes  back 
over  a  gulf  of  time"  from  a  forgotten  youth.  He  touched 
her  wrist  and  watched  her. 


THE  PROFILE  ON  THE  MOON.  155 

Virdow  was  right;  she  was  dead. 

As  if  to  converse  with  a  friend,  he  took  a  seat  upon  the 
couch  and  lifting  one  cold  hand  held  it  while  he  remained. 
This  was  Rita,  who  had  always  come  to  wake  him  when 
he  slept  too  late;  had  brought  his  meals,  had  answered 
whenever  he  called,  and  found  him  when  he  wandered 
too  long  under  the  stars  and  guided  him  back  to  his  room. 
Rita,  who,  when  his  moods  distracted  him,  had  only  to  fix 
her  eyes  on  his  and  speak  his  name,  and  all  was  peace 
again. 

This  was  Rita.    Dead ! 

How  could  it  be?  How  could  anything  be  wrong  with 
Rita?  It  was  impossible!  He  put  his  hand  above  the 
heart;  it  was  silent.  He  spoke  her  name.  She  did  not 
reply. 

Gradually,  as  he  concentrated  his  attention  upon  the 
facts,  his  mind  emerged  from  its  shadows.  Yes,  Rita,  his 
friend,  was  dead.  And  then  slowly,  his  life,  with  its  haunt 
ing  thoughts,  its  loneliness,  came  back,  and  the  signifi 
cance  of  these  facts  overwhelmed  him. 

He  knew  now  who  Rita  was;  it  was  an  old,  old  story. 
He  knelt  and  laid  his  cheek  upon  that  yellow  chilled 
hand,  the  only  hand  that  had  ever  lovingly  touched  him. 

She  had  been  a  mother  indeed;  humoring  his  every 
whim.  She  had  never  scolded;  not  Rita! 

The  doctors  had  said  he  could  sleep  without  his  opium ; 
they  shut  him  up  and  he  suffered  torments.  Rita  came  in 
the  night.  Her  little  store  of  money  had  been  drawn  on. 
They,  together,  deceived  the  doctors.  For  years  they 
deceived  them,  he  and  Rita,  until  all  her  little  savings 
were  gone.  And  then  she  had  worked  for  the  gentlemen 
down-town;  had  schemed  and  plotted  and  brought  him 
comfort,  until  the  doctors  gave  up  the  struggle. 

Now  she  was  gone — forever!  Strange,  but  this  con 
tingency  had  never  once  occurred  to  him.  How  egotis 
tical  he  must  have  been;  how  much  a  child — a  spoiled 
child! 

He  looked  about  him.  Rita  had  )rears  ago  told  him 
a  secret.  In  the  night  she  had  bent  over  him  and  called 
him  fond  names;  had  wept  upon  his  pillow.  She  had  told 
him  to  speak  the  word  just  once,  never  again  but  that 


156  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

one  time,  and  then  to  forget  it.  Wondering  he  said  it — 
"Mother."  He  could  not  forget  how  she  fell  upon  him 
then  and  tearfully  embraced  him ;  he  the  heir  and  nephew 
of  John  Morgan.  But  it  pleased  good  Rita  and  he  was 
happy. 

Dead!  Rita!  Would  it  waken  her  if  he  spoke  that 
name  again?  He  bent  to  her  cheek  to  say  it,  but  first  he 
looked  about  him  cautiously.  Rita  would  not  like  for  any 
one  to  share  the  secret.  He  bent  until  his  lips  were  touch 
ing  hers  and  whispered  it  again: 

"Mother!"  She  did  not  move.  He  spoke  louder  and 
louder. 

"Mother."  How  strange  sounded  that  one  word  in  the 
deserted  room.  A  fear  seized  him;  would  she  never 
speak  again?  He  dropped  on  his  knees  in  agony;  and,, 
with  his  hand  upon  her  forehead,  almost  screamed  the 
word  again.  It  echoed  for  the  last  time — "Mother!"  Just 
then  the  face  of  Virdow  appeared  at  the  door,  to  be  with 
drawn  instantly. 

Then  Gerald  grew  cool.  "She  is  dead,"  he  said,  sadly 
to  himself.  "She  would  have  answered  that!" 

A  change  came  over  him !  He  seemed  to  emerge  from 
a  dream;  Virdow  stood  by  him  now.  Drawing  himself 
up  proudly  he  gazed  upon  the  dead  face. 

"She  was  a  good  nurse — a  better  no  child  ever  had. 
Were  my  uncle  living  he  would  build  her  a  great  monu 
ment.  I  will  speak  to  Edward  about  it.  It  is  not  seemly 
that  people  who  have  served  the  Morgans  so  long  and 
faithfully  should  sleep  in  unmarked  graves.  Farewell, 
Rita;  you  have  been  good  and  true  to  me."  He  went  to 
his  room.  An  hour  later  Virdow  found  him  there,  crying 
as  a  child. 

With  a  tenderness  that  rose  superior  to  the  difficulties 
of  language  and  the  differences  of  race  and  customs,  Vir 
dow  comforted  and  consoled  him.  And  then  occurred 
one  of  those  changes  familiar  to  the  students  of  nature 
but  marvelous  to  the  unobservant.  To  Virdow,  who  had 
seen  the  vine  of  his  garden  torn  from  the  supporting  rod 
about  which  it  had  tied  itself  with  tendrils,  attach  itself 
again  by  the  gluey  points  of  new  ones  to  the  smooth  face 
of  the  wall  itself,  coiling  them  into  springs  to  resist  the 


THE  PROFILE  ON  THE  MOON.  157 

winds,  the  change  that  came  upon  Gerald  was  natural. 
The  broken  tendrils  of  his  life  touched  with  quick  intel 
ligence  the  sympathetic  old  German  and  linked  the  simple 
being  of  the  child-man  to  him.  By  an  intuition,  womanly 
in  its  swift  comprehension,  Virdow  knew  at  once  that  he 
had  become  in  some  ways  necessary  to  the  life  of  the  frail 
being,  and  he  was  pleased.  He  gave  himself  up  to  the 
mission  without  effort,  disturbing  in  no  way  the  new 
process.  Watching  Gerald,  he  appeared  not  to  watch; 
present  at  all  times,  he  seemed  to  keep  himself  aloof. 

Virdow  called  up  an  undertaker  from  the  city  in  accord 
ance  with  the  directions  left  with  him  and  had  the  body 
of  Rita  prepared  for  the  burial,  which  was  to  take  place 
upon  the  estate,  and  then  left  all  to  the  care  of  the  watch 
ers.  During  the  day  from  time  to  time  Gerald  went  to 
the  little  room,  and  on  such  visits  those  in  attendance 
withdrew. 

There  was  little  excitement  among  the  negroes.  The 
singing,  shouting  and  violent  ecstasies  which  distinguish 
ed  the  burials  of  the  race  were  wanting;  Rita  had  been 
one  of  those  rare  servants  who  keep  aloof  from  her  color. 
Gradually  withdrawn  from  all  contact  with  the  world, 
her  life  had  shrunk  into  a  little  round  of  duties  and  the 
care  of  the  Morgan  home. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  young  master  should  find 
himself  alone  with  the  nurse  on  each  return  to  her  coffin. 
During  one  of  these  visits  Virdow  at  a  distance  beheld  a 
curious  thing.  Gerald  had  gazed  long  and  thoughtfully 
into  the  silent  face  and  returning  to  his  room  had  secured 
paper  and  crayon.  Kneeling,  he  drew  carefully  the  profile 
of  his  dead  friend  and  went  away  to  his  studio.  Standing 
in  his  place  a  moment  later,  Virdow  was  surprised  to 
note  the  change  that  had  come  over  the  face ;  the  relaxing 
power  of  death  seemed  to  have  rolled  back  the  curtain  of 
age  and  restored  for  the  hour  a  glimpse  of  youth.  A 
woman  of  25  seemed  lying  there,  her  face  noble  and  se 
rene,  a  glorified  glimpse  of  what  had  been.  The  brow  was 
smooth  and  serene,  the  facial  angle  high,  the  hair,  now 
no  longer  under  the  inevitable  turban,  smooth  and  black, 
with  just  a  suspicion  of  frost  above  the  temples.  The 
lips  were  curved  and  smiling. 


158  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

Why  had  the  young  man  drawn  her  profile?  What  real 
position  did  this  woman  occupy  in  that  strange  family? 
As  to  the  latter  he  could  not  determine;  he  would  not  try. 
He  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  domestic  facts  of  life. 
There  had  been  a  deep  significance  in  the  first  scene  at 
the  bedside.  And  yet  "Mother"  under  the  circumstances 
might  after  all  mean  nothing.  He  had  heard  that  south 
ern  children  were  taught  this,  or  something  like  it,  by  all 
black  nurses.  But  as  to  the  profile,  there  was  a  phenom 
enon  possibly,  and  science  was  his  life.  The  young  man 
had  drawn  the  profile  because  it  was  the  first  time  he  had 
within  his  recollections  ever  seen  it.  In  the  analysis  of 
his  dreams  that  profile  might  be  of  momentous  import 
ance. 

The  little  group  that  had  gathered  followed  the  coffin 
to  a  clump  of  trees  not  far  removed.  The  men  who  bore 
it  lowered  it  at  once  to  the  open  grave.  An  old  negro 
preacher  lifted  his  voice  in  a  homely  prayer,  the  women 
sung  a  weird  hymn,  and  then  they  filled  up  the  cavity. 
The  face  and  form  of  Rita  were  removed  from  human 
vision,  but  only  the  face  and  form.  For  one  of  that  con 
course,  the  young  white  man  who  had  come  bareheaded 
to  stand  calm  and  silent  at  the  foot  of  the  grave,  she 
lived  clear  and  distinct  upon  the  hidden  film  of  memory. 

Virdow  was  not  deceived  by  that  calmness;  he  knew 
and  feared  the  reaction  which  was  inevitable.  From  time 
to  time  during  the  evening  he  had  gone  silently  to  the 
wing-room  and  to  the  outer  yard  to  gaze  in  upon  his 
charge.  Always  he  found  him  calm  and  rational.  He 
could  not  understand  it. 

Then,  disturbed  by  the  suspense  of  Edward's  absence, 
and  the  uncertainty  of  his  fate,  he  would  forget  himself 
and  surroundings  in  contemplation  of  the  possible  dis 
asters  of  an  American  duel — exaggerated  accounts  of 
which  dwelt  in  his  memory.  He  resolved  to  remain  up 
until  the  crisis  came. 

It  was  midnight  when,  for  the  twentieth  time,  probably, 
he  went  to  look  in  upon  Gerald.  The  wing-room,  the 
glass-room,  the  little  house  deprived  by  death  of  its  occu 
pant,  the  outer  premises — he  searched  them  all  in  vain. 
Greatly  troubled,  he  stood  revolving  the  new  perplexity 


THE  MIDNIGHT  SEARCH.  159 

in  his  mind  when  his  eye  caught  in  the  faint  glow  of  the 
east,  where  the  moon  was  beginning  to  show  its  approach, 
the  outline  of  the  cemetery  clump  of  trees.  It  flashed 
upon  him  then  that,  drawn  by  the  power  of  association, 
the  young  man  might  have  wandered  off  to  pay  a  visit 
to  the  grave  of  his  friend.  He  turned  his  own  feet  in  the 
same  direction,  and  approached  the  spot.  The  grave  had 
been  dug  under  the  widespread  limbs  of  a  cedar,  and 
there  he  found  the  object  of  his  quest. 

Slowly  the  moon  rose  above  the  level  field  beyond, 
outlining  a  form.  In  his  dressing  gown  stood  Gerald, 
with  folded  arms,  his  long  hair  falling  upon  his  shoulders, 
lost  in  deep  thought. 

Thrilled  by  the  scene,  Virdow  was  about  to  speak, 
when,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  there  was  flashed  upon 
him  a  vision  that  sent  his  blood  back  to  his  heart  and  left 
him  speechless  with  emotion.  For  in  that  moment  the 
half-moon  was  at  the  level  of  the  head,  and  outlined 
against  its  silver  surface  he  saw  the  profile  of  the  face 
he  had  studied  in  the  coffin.  Appalled  by  the  discovery, 
he  turned  silently  and  sought  his  room. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  MIDNIGHT  SEARCH. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  Virdow  awoke.  The  excite 
ment,  the  unwonted  hours  which  circumstances  forced 
him  to  keep,  brought  at  last  unbroken  rest  and  restored 
his  physical  structure  to  its  normal  condition. 

He  dressed  himself  and  descended  to  find  a  brief  tele 
gram  announcing  the  safety  of  Edward.  It  was  a  joyful 
addition  to  the  conditions  that  had  restored  him.  The 
telegram  had  not  been  opened.  He  went  quickly  to  Ger 
ald's  room  and  found  that  young  man  at  work  upon  a 
painting  of  Rita  as  he  had  seen  her  last — the  profile 
sketch.  His  emotional  nature  had  already  thrown  off  its 
gloom,  and  with  absorbed  interest  he  was  pushing  his 


160  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

work.  Already  the  face  had  been  sketched  in  and  the 
priming  completed.  Under  his  rapid  and  skillful  hands 
the  tints  and  contours  were  growing,  and  Virdow,  accus 
tomed  as  he  was  to  art  in  all  its  completeness  and  tech 
nical  perfection,  marveled  to  see  the  changed  face  of  the 
woman  glide  back  into  view,  the  counterpart  he  knew  of 
the  vivid  likeness  clear  cut  in  the  sensitive  brain  that  held 
it.  He  let  him  work  undisturbed.  A  word  might  affect  its 
correctness.  Only  when  the  artist  ceased  and  laid  aside 
his  brush  for  a  brief  rest  did  he  speak. 

Gerald  turned  to  him  as  to  a  co-laborer,  and  took  the 
yellow  slip  of  paper,  so  potent  with  intelligent  lettering. 
He  read  it  in  silence ;  then  putting  it  aside  went  on  with 
his  painting.  Virdow  rubbed  his  brow  and  studied  him 
furtively.  Such  lack  of  interest  was  inconceivable  under 
the  conditions.  He  went  to  work  seriously  to  account 
for  it  and  this  he  did  to  his  own  satisfaction.  In  one  of 
his  published  lectures  on  memory,  years  after,  occurred 
this  sentence,  based  upon  that  silent  reverie: 

"Impressions  and  forgetfulness  are  measurable  by 
each  other;  indeed,  the  power  of  the  mind  to  remember 
vividly  seems  to  be  measured  by  its  power  to  forget." 

But  afterward  Gerald  picked  up  the  telegram,  read  it 
intently  and  seemed  to  reflect  over  the  information  it  con 
tained.'  Later  in  the  day  the  postman  brought  the  mail 
and  with  it  one  of  the  "extras."  Virdow  read  it  aloud  in 
the  wing-room.  Gerald  came  and  stood  before  him,  his 
eyes  revealing  excitement.  When  Virdow  reached  the 
part  wherein  Edward  was  described  as  never  removing  his 
eyes  from  his  antagonist,  his  hearer  exclaimed: 

"Good!    He  will  kill  him!" 

"No,"  said  Virdow,  smiling;  "fortunately  he  did  not. 
Listen." 

"Fortunately!"  cried  Gerald;  "fortunately!  Why?  What 
right  has  such  a  man  to  live?  He  must  have  killed  him!" 
Virdow  read  on.  A  cry  broke  from  Gerald's  lips  as  the 
explanation  appeared. 

"I  was  right!  The  hand  becomes  a  part  of  the  eye 
when  the  mind  wills  it;  or,  rather,  eye  and  hand  become 
mind.  The  will  is  everything.  But  why  he  should  have 
struck  the  guard "  He  went  to  the  wall  and  took 


THE  MIDNIGHT  SEARCH.  161 

down  two  pistols.  Handing  one  to  Virdow  and  stepping 
back  he  said:  "You  will  please  sight  at  my  face  a  mo 
ment;  I  cannot  understand  how  the  accident  could  have 
happened."  Virdow  held  the  weapon  gingerly. 

"But,  Herr  Gerald,  it  may  be  loaded." 

"They  are  empty,"  said  Gerald,  breeching  his  own  and 
exposing  the  cylinder  chambers,  with  the  light  shining 
through.  "Now  aim!"  Virdow  obeyed;  the  two  men 
stood  at  ten  paces,  aiming  at  each  other's  faces.  "Your 
hand,"  said  the  young  man,  "covers  your  mouth.  Ed 
ward  aimed  for  the  mouth." 

There  was  a  quick,  sharp  explosion ;  Virdow  staggered 
back,  dropping  his  smoking  pistol.  Gerald  turned  his 
head  in  mild  surprise  and  looked  upon  a  hole  in  the  plas 
tering  behind. 

"I  have  no  recollection  of  loading  that  pistol,"  he  said. 
And  then:  "If  your  mind  had  been  concentrated  upon 
your  aim  I  would  have  lost  a  finger  and  had  my  weapon 
driven  into  my  face."  Virdow  was  shocked  at  the  narrow 
escape  and  pale  as  death. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  Gerald,  replacing  the  weapon;  "you 
would  not  hit  me  in  a  dozen  trials,  shooting  as  you  do." 

At  10  o'clock  that  night  Edward,  pale  and  weary,  en 
tered.  He  returned  with  emotion  the  professor's  enthu 
siastic  embrace,  and  thanked  him  for  his  care  of  and  at 
tention  of  Gerald  and  the  household  and  for  his  services 
to  the  dead.  Gerald  studied  him  keenly  as  he  spoke,  and 
once  went  to  one  side  and  looked  upon  him  with  new  and 
curious  interest.  The  professor  saw  that  he  was  exam 
ining  the  profile  of  the  speaker  by  the  aid  of  the  pow 
erful  lamp  on  a  table  beyond.  The  discovery  set  his  mind 
to  working  in  the  same  direction,  and  soon  he  saw  the 
profiles  of  both.  Edward's  did  not  closely  resemble  the 
other.  That  this  was  true,  for  some  reason,  the  expres 
sion  that  had  settled  upon  Gerald's  face  attested.  The 
portrait  had  been  covered  and  removed. 

Edward,  after  concluding  some  domestic  arrangements, 
went  directly  to  his  room  and,  dressed  as  he  was,  threw 
himself  upon  his  bed  and  slept. 

And  as  he  slept  there  took  place  about  him  a  drama 
that  would  have  set  his  heart  beating  with  excitement 
11 


162  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

could  he  have  witnessed  it.  The  house  was  silent;  the 
city  clock  had  tolled  the  midnight  hour,  when  Gerald 
came  into  the  room,  bearing  a  shaded  lamp.  The  sleeper 
lay  on  his  back,  locked  in  the  slumber  of  exhaustion. 
The  visitor,  moving  with  the  noiselessness  of  a  shadow, 
glided  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed,  and,  placing  the 
lamp  on  a  chair,  slowly  turned  up  the  flame  and  tilted 
the  shade.  In  an  instant  the  strong  profile  of  the  sleeper 
flashed  upon  the  wall.  With  suppressed  excitement 
Gerald  unwrapped  a  sheet  of  cardboard,  and  standing 
it  on  the  mantel  received  upon  it  the  shadow.  As  if  by 
a  supreme  effort,  he  controlled  himself  and  traced  the 
profile  on  his  paper.  Lifting  it  from  the  mantel  he 
studied  it  for  a  moment  intently  and  then  replaced  it. 
The  shadow  filled  the  tracing.  Taking  it  slowly  from  its 
position  he  passed  from  the  room.  Fortunately  his  dis 
traction  was  too  great  for  him  to  notice  the  face  of 
Virdow,  or  to  perceive  it  in  the  deep  gloom  of  the  little 
room  as  he  passed  out. 

The  German  waited  a  few  moments;  no  sound  came 
back  from  the  broad  carpeted  stair;  taking  the  forgotten 
lamp,  he  followed  him  silently.  Passing  out  into  the 
shrubbery,  he  made  his  way  to  the  side  of  the  conserva 
tory  and  looked  in.  Gerald  had  placed  the  two  profiles, 
one  on  each  side  of  the  mirror,  and  with  a  duplex  glass 
was  studying  his  own  in  connection  with  them.  He  stood 
musing,  and  then,  as  if  forgetting  "his  occupation,  he  let 
the  hand-glass  crash  upon  the  floor,  tossed  his  arms  in 
an  abandonment  of  emotion,  and,  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  suddenly  threw  himself  across  the  bed. 

Virdow  was  distressed  and  perplexed.  He  read  the 
story  in  the  pantomime,  but  what  could  he  do?  No 
human  sympathy  could  comfort  such  a  grief,  nor  could 
he  betray  his  knowledge  of  the  secret  he  had  surrep 
titiously  obtained.  He  paced  up  and  down  outside  until 
presently  the  moving  shadow  of  the  occupant  of  the 
room  fell  upon  his  path.  He  saw  him  then  take  from  a 
box  a  little  pill  and  put  it  in  his  mouth,  and  he  knew 
that  the  troubles  of  life,  its  doubts,  distress  and  loneliness, 
would  be  forgotten  for  hours. 

Forgotten?     Who  knows?     Oh,  mystery  of  creation; 


THE  MIDNIGHT  SEARCH.  163 

that  invisible  intelligence  that  vanishes  in  sleep  and  in 
death;  gone  on  its  voyage  of  discovery,  appalling  in  its 
possibilities;  but  yet  how  useless-,  since  it  must  return 
with  no  memory  of  its  experience! 

And  he,  Virdow,  what  a  dreamer !  For  in  that  German 
brain  of  subtleties  lived,  with  the  clearness  of  an  incan 
descent  light  in  the  depths  of  a  coal  mine,  one  mighty 
purpose;  one  so  vast,  so  potent  in  its  possibilities,  as  to 
shake  the  throne  of  reason,  a  resolution  to  follow  upon 
the  path  of  mind  and  wake  a  memory  never  touched  in 
the  history  of  science.  It  was  not  an  ambition;  it  was 
a  leap  toward  the  gates  of  heaven!  For  what  cared  he 
that  his  name  might  shine  forever  in  the  annals  of  history 
if  he  could  claim  of  his  own  mind  the  record  of  its 
wanderings?  The  future  was  not  his  thought.  What, 
he  sought  was  the  memory  of  the  past ! 

He  went  in  now,  secure  of  the  possibility  of  disturbing 
the  sleeper,  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  white  face 
-and  whiter  brow.  His  eyes  roved  to  the  room's  appoint 
ments;  there  were  the  two  profiles  on  either  side  of  the 
mirror;  upon  the  floor  the  shivered  fragments  of  the 
hand-glass. 

Virdow  returned  to  his  room,  but  before  leaving  he 
took  from  the  little  box  one  of  the  pellets  and  swallowed 
it.  If  he  was  to  know  that  mind,  he  must  acquaint  him 
self  with  its  conditions.  He  had  never  before  swallowed 
the  drug;  he  took  this  as  the  Frenchman  received  the 
attenuated  virus  of  hydrophobia  from  the  hands  of  Pas 
teur — in  the  interest  of  science  and  the  human  race. 

As  he  lay  upon  his  bed  he  felt  a  languor  steal  upon 
him,  saw  in  far  dreams  cool  meadows  and  flowery  slopes, 
felt  the  solace  of  perfect  repose  envelop  him.  And  then 
he  stood  beside  a  stream  of  running  water  under  the 
shade  of  the  trees,  with  the  familiar  hills  of  youth  along 
the  horizon.  A  young  woman  came  and  stood  above  the 
stream  and  looked  intently  upon  its  glassy  surface.  Her 
features  were  indistinct.  Drawing  near  he,  too,  looked 
into  the  water,  and  there  at  his  feet  was  the  sad,  sweet 
face  of — Marion  Evan.  He  turned  and  then  looked 
closer  at  the  woman;  he  saw  in  her  arms  the  figure  of  an 
infant,  over  whose  face  she  had  drawn  a  fold  of  her 


164  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

gown.  She  shook  her  head  as  he  extended  his  hand 
to  remove  this  and  pointed  behind  her.  There  the  grass 
ran  out  and  only  white  sand  appeared,  with  no  break  to 
the  horizon. 

Toiling  on  through  this,  with  a  bowed  head,  was  a 
female  figure.  He  knew  her;  she  was  Rita,  and  the 
burden  she,  too,  carried  in  her  arms  was  the  form  of  a 
child.  The  figures  disappeared  and  a  leaf  floated  down 
the  stream;  twenty-six  in  succession  followed,  and  then 
he  saw  a  man  descending  the  mountains  and  coming  for 
ward,  his  eyes  fixed  on  something  beyond  him.  It  was 
Edward.  He  looked  in  the  same  direction;  there  was  a 
frail  man  toiling  toward  him  through  the  deep  sands  in 
the  hot  sunlight.  It  was  Gerald.  And  then  the  figures 
faded  away.  There  memory  ceased  to  record. 

Whatever  else  was  the  experience  of  that  eager  mind 
as  it  wandered  on  through  the  night  is  kept  secret.  No 
opium  was  to  unlock  the  mystery,  and  phantasmagoria 
has  no  place  in  science.  He  remembered  in  the  morning 
up  to  one  point  only. 

It  was  his  last  experience  with  the  drug. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

GATHERING  THE  CLEWS. 

Edward  drifted  for  several  days  upon  the  tide  of  the 
thoughts  that  came  over  him.  He  felt  a  singular  dis 
inclination  to  face  the  world  again.  He  knew  that  as 
life  goes  he  had  acquitted  himself  manfully  and  that 
nothing  remained  undone  that  had  been  his  duty  to  per 
form.  He  was  sensible  of  a  feeling  of  deep  gratitude 
to  the  old  general  for  his  active  and  invaluable  backing; 
without  it  he  realized  then  that  he  would  have  been 
drawn  into  a  pitfall  and  the  opportunity  for  defense  gone. 
He  did  not  realize,  however,  how  complete  the  public 
reaction  had  been  until  card  after  card  had  been  left  at 
Ilexhurst  and  the  postman  had  deposited  congratulatory 


GATHERING  THE  CLEWS.  165 

missives  by  the  score.  One  of  these  contained  notice  of 
his  election  to  the  club. 

Satisfactory  as  was  all  this  he  put  aside  the  social  and 
public  life  into  which  he  had  been  drawn,  conscious  that, 
while  the  affront  to  him  had  been  resented  and  rendered 
harmless,  he  himself  was  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever; 
that  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  without  name  and  family, 
without  right  to  avail  himself  of  the  generous  offers  laid 
at  his  door.  Despite  his  splendid  residence,  his  future, 
his  talents  and  his  prestige  as  a  man  of  honor,  he  was — 
nobody;  an  accident  of  fate;  a  whim  of  an  eccentric 
old  man. 

He  would  not  involve  any  one  else  in  the  possibility 
of  ruin.  He  would  not  let  another  share  his  danger. 
There  could  be  no  happiness  with  this  mystery  hanging 
over  him. 

Soon  after  his  return,  while  his  heart  was  yet  sore  and 
disturbed,  he  had  received  a  note  from  Mary.  She  wrote: 

"We  suffer  greatly  on  your  account.  Poor  papa  was 
bound  down  by  circumstances  with  which  you  are  famil 
iar,  though  he  would  have  gone  to  you  at  any  cost  had 
it  been  necessary.  In  addition  his  health  is  very  delicate 
and  he  has  been  facing  a  heavy  sorrow — now  realized  at 
last!  Poor  little  mamma's  eyesight  is  gone — forever, 
probably.  We  are  in  deep  distress,  as  you  may  imagine, 
for,  unused  as  yet  to  her  misfortune,  she  is  quite  helpless 
and  needs  our  constant  care,  and  it  is  pitiful  to  see  her 
efforts  to  bear  up  and  be  cheerful. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  have  sorrowed  over  the 
insult  and  wrongs  inflicted  upon  you  by  a  cowardly  con 
nection  of  our  family,  nor  how  anxious  I  was  until  the 
welcome  news  of  your  safety  reached  us.  We  owe  you 
much,  and  more  now  since  you  were  made  the  innocent 
victim  of  a  plot  aimed  to  destroy  papa's  chances. 

"It  is  unbearable  to  think  of  your  having  to  stand  up 
and  be  shot  at  in  our  behalf;  but  oh,  how  glad  I  am  that 
you  had  the  old  general  with  you.  Is  he  not  noble  and 
good?  He  is  quite  carried  away  with  you  and  never 
tires  of  talking  of  your  coolness  and  courage.  He  says 
everything  has  ended  beautifully  but  the  election,  and 


166  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

he  could  remedy  that  if  papa  would  consent,  but  nothing 
in  the  world  could  take  papa  away  from  us  now,  and  if 
he  had  been  elected  his  resignation  would  have  speedily 
followed. 

"I  know  you  are  yet  weary  and  bitter,  and  do  not 
even  care  to  see  your  friends,  but  that  will  pass  and 
none  will  give  you  a  more  earnest  welcome  when  you 
do  come  than  Mary?' 

He  read  this  many  times,  and  each  time  found  in  it  a 
new  charm.  Its  simplicity  and  earnestness  impressed 
him  at  one  reading  and  its  personal  interest  at  another; 
its  quick  discerning  sympathy  in  another. 

It  grew  upon  him,  that  letter.  It  was  the  only  letter 
ever  penned  by  a  woman  to  him.  Notes  he  had  had  by 
the  score;  rich  young  men  in  the  gay  capitals  of  Europe 
do  not  escape  nor  seek  to  escape  these,  but  this  was 
straight  from  the  heart  of  an  earnest,  self-reliant,  sympa 
thetic  woman;  one  of  those  that  have  made  the  south 
a  fame  as  far  as  her  sons  have  traveled.  It  was  a  new 
experience  and  destined  to  be  a  lasting  one. 

Its  effect  was  in  the  end  striking  and  happy.  Grad 
ually  he  roused  himself  from  the  cynical  lethargy  into 
which  he  was  sinking  and  began  to  look  about  him. 
After  all  he  had  much  to  live  for,  much  with  reason  to 
hope  for!  Peace  came  upon  him,  and  with  peace  came 
new  manhood.  He  would  fight  for  the  woman  who  had 
faith  in  him — such  a  fight  as  no  man  ever  dared  before. 
He  looked  up  to  find  Virdow  smiling  on  him  through 
his  tears. 

He  stood  up.  "I  am  going  to  make  a  statement  now 
that  will  surprise  and  shock  you,  but  the  reason  will  be 
sufficient.  First  I  ask  that  you  promise  me,  as  though 
we  stood  before  our  Creator,  a  witness,  that  never  in 
this  life  nor  the  next,  if  consciousness  of  this  goes  with 
you,  will  you  betray  by  word  or  deed  anything  of  what 
you  hear  from  my  lips  to-night.  I  do  not  feel  any  uneasi 
ness,  but  promise." 

"I  promise,"  said  Virdow,  simply,  "but  if  it  distresses 
you,  if  you  feel  bound  to  me — " 

"On  the  contrary,  the  reason  is  selfish  entirely.     I  tell 


GATHERING  THE  CLEWS.  167 

you  because  the  possession  of  this  matter  is  destroying 
my  ability  to  judge  fairly;  because  I  want  help  and  be 
lieve  you  are  the  only  being  in  the  world  who  can  give 
it."  He  spoke  earnestly  and  pathetically.  "Without  it,  I 
shall  become — a  wreck."  The  keen  eyes  of  the  professor 
studied  him  anxiously.  Then  he  seized  the  speaker's 
hand. 

"Go  on,  Edward.  All  the  help  that  Virdow  can  give 
is  yours  in  advance." 

Edward  related  to  him  the  causes  that  led  up  to  the 
duel — the  political  campaign,  the  publication  of  Royson's 
card,  and  the  history  of  the  challenge. 

"You  call  me  Edward,"  he  said;  "the  world  knows  me 
and  I  know  myself  as  Edward  Morgan.  I  have  no  evi 
dence  whatever  to  believe  myself  entitled  to  bear  the 
name.  All  the  evidence  I  have  points  to  the  fact  that 
it  was  bestowed  upon  me  as  was  my  fortune  itself — in 
pity.  The  mystery  that  overspreads  me  envelops  Gerald 
also.  But  fate  has  left  him  superior  to  misfortune." 

"It  has  already  done  for  him  what  you  fear  for  your 
self — it  has  wrecked  his  life,  if  not  his  mind !"  The  pro 
fessor  spoke  the  words  sadly  and  gently,  looking  into  the 
night  through  the  open  window. 

Edward  turned  toward  him  in  wonder. 

"You  think,  then,  he  knows  something  of  this — " 

"I  am  sure.  Listen  and  I  will  tell  you  why.  To  me  it 
seems  fatal  to  him,  but  for  you  there  is  consolation." 
Graphically  he  described  then  the  events  that  had  tran 
spired  during  the  few  days  of  his  stay  at  Ilexhurst;  his 
quick  perception  that  the  mind  of  Gerald  was  working 
feverishly,  furiously,  and  upon  defined  lines  to  some  end ; 
that  something  haunted  and  depressed  him.  His  secret 
was  revealed  in  his  conduct  upon  the  death  of  Rita. 

He  described  the  drawing  and  comparison  of  the  pro 
files,  and  the  scene  over  the  grave  of  Rita. 

"It  is  plain,"  said  Virdow  finally,  "that  this  thought 
— this  uncertainty — which  has  haunted  you  for  weeks, 
has  been  wearing,  upon  him  since  childhood.  Of  t.ie 
events  that  preceded  it  I  have  little  or  no  information." 

Edward,  thrilled  to  the  heart  by  this  recital  and  the 
fact  to  which  it  seemed  to  point,  walked  the  floor  greatly 
agitated.  Presently  he  said: 


168  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"Of  these  you  shall  judge  also."  He  took  from  the 
desk  in  the  adjoining  room  the  fragmentary  story  and 
read  it.  "This,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  the  face  of  the  old 
man  beam  with  intelligence,  "is  confirmed  as  an  incident 
in  the  life  of  Gerald  or  myself;  in  fact,  the  beginning 
of  life."  He  gave  the  history  of  the  fragmentary  story 
and  of  Rita's  confession. 

"By  this  evidence,"  he  went  on,  "I  was  led  to  believe 
that  the  woman  erred  in  the  recognition  of  her  own  child ; 
that  I  am  in  fact  that  child  and  that  Gerald  is  the  son  of 
Marion.  This  in  her  last  breath  she  seemed  to  deny,  for 
when  I  begged  her  to  testify  upon  it,  as  before  her  God, 
and  asked  the  question  direct,  she  cried  out:  'They  lied!' 
In  this  it  seems  to  me  that  her  heart  went  back  to  its 
secret  belief  and  that  in  the  supreme  moment  she  affirmed 
forever  his  nativity.  Were  this  all  I  confess  I  would  be 
satisfied,  but  there  is  a  fatal  fact  to  come!"  He  took  from 
his  pocket  the  package  he  had  prepared  for  Gen.  Evan, 
and  tore  from  it  the  picture  of  Marion. 

"Now,"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  "as  between  the  two 
of  us.  how  can  this  woman  be  other  than  the  mother  of 
Gerald  Morgan?  And,  if  I  could  be  mistaken  as  to  the 
resemblance,  how  could  her  father  fall  into  my  error? 
For  I  swear  to  you  that  on  the  night  he  bent  over  the 
sleeping  man  he  saw  upon  the  pillow  the  face  of  his  wife 
and  daughter  blended  in  those  features!"  Virdow  was 
looking  intently  upon  the  picture. 

"Softly,  softly,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head;  "it  is  a 
true  likeness,  but  it  does  not  prove  anything.  Family 
likeness  descends  only  surely  by  profiles.  If  we  could 
see  her  profile,  but  this!  There  is  no  reason  why  the 
child  of  Rita  should  not  resemble  another.  It  would  de 
pend  upon  the  impression,  the  interest,  the  circumstances 
of  birth,  of  associations — "  He  paused.  "Describe  to 
me  again  the  mind  picture  which  Gerald  under  the  spell 
of  music  sketched — give  it  exactly."  Edward  gave  it  in 
detail. 

"That,"  said  Virdow,  "was  the  scene  flashed  upon  the 
woman  who  gazed  from  under  the  arch.  It  seems  im 
possible  for  it  to  have  descended  to  Gerald,  except  by  one 
of  the  two  women  there — the  one  to  whom  the  man's 


GATHERING  THE  CLEWS.  169 

back  was  turned.  Had  this  mental  impression  come  from 
the  other  source  it  seems  to  me  he  would  have  seen  the 
face  of  that  man,  and  if  the  impression  was  vivid  enough 
to  descend  from  mother  to  child  it  would  have  had  the 
church  for  a  background,  in  place  of  the  open  arch,  with 
storm-lashed  trees  beyond.  This  is  reasonable  only  when 
we  suppose  it  possible  that,  brain  pictures  can  be  trans 
mitted.  As  a  man  I  am  convinced.  As  a  scientist  I  say 
that  it  is  not  proved." 

Edward,  every  nerve  strained  to  its  utmost  tension, 
every  faculty  of  mind  engaged,  devoured  this  brief  anal 
ysis  and  conclusion.  But  more  proof  was  given!  Over 
his  face  swept  a  shadow. 

"Poor  Gerald!  Poor  Gerald!"  he  muttered.  But  he 
became  conscious  presently  that  the  face  of  Virdow  wore 
a  concerned  look;  there  was  something  to  come.  He 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  clear  up  the  last  vestige 
of  doubt  if  doubt  could  remain. 

'Tell  me,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  require  to  satisfy  you 
that  between  the  two  I  am  the  son  of  Marion  Evan?" 

"Two  things,"  said  Virdow,  quickly.  "First,  proof  that 
Rita  was  in  no  way  akin  to  the  Evan  family,  for  if  she 
was  in  the  remotest  degree,  the  similarity  of  profiles 
could  be  accounted  for.  Second,  that  your  own  and  the 
profile  of  Marion  Evan  were  of  the  same  angle.  Satisfy 
me  upon  these  two  points  and  you  have  nothing  to  fear." 
A  feeling  of  weakness  overwhelmed  Edward.  The  gen 
eral  had  not  seen  in  his  face  any  likeness  to  impress  him. 
And  yet,  why  his  marked  interest?  The  whole  subject 
lay  open  again. 

And  Marion  Evan!  Where  was  he  to  obtain  such 
proof? 

Virdow  saw  the  struggle  in  his  mind. 

"Leave  nothing  unturned,"  said  Edward,  "that  one  of 
us  may  live  free  of  doubt,  and  just  now,  God  help  me, 
it  seems  my  duty  to  strive  for  him  first." 

"And  these  efforts — when — " 

"To-night!     Let  us  descend." 

"We  go  first  to  the  room  of  the  nurse,"  said  Virdow. 
"We  will  begin  there." 

Edward  led  the  way  and  with  a  lighted  lamp  they  en- 


170  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

tered  the  room.  The  search  there  was  brief  and  un 
eventful.  On  the  wall  in  a  simple  frame  was  a  portrait 
of  John  Morgan,  drawn  years  before  from  memory  by 
Gerald.  It  was  the  face  of  the  man  known  only  to  the 
two  searchers  as  Abingdon,  but  its  presence  there  might 
be  significant. 

Her  furniture  and  possessions  were  simple.  In  her  little 
box  of  trinkets  were  found  several  envelopes  addressed 
to  her  from  Paris,  one  of  them  in  the  handwriting  of  a 
man,  the  style  German.  All  were  empty,  the  letters 
having  in  all  probability  been  destroyed.  They,  how 
ever,  constituted  a  clew,  and  Edward  placed  them  in  his 
pocket.  In  another  envelope  was  a  child's  golden  curl, 
tied  with  a  narrow  black  ribbon ;  and  there  was  a  drawer 
full  of  broken  toys.  And  that  was  all. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  FACE  THAT  CAME  IN  DREAMS. 

Virdow  was  not  a  scientist  in  the  strict  sense  of  the 
term.  He  had  been  a  fairly  good  musician  in  youth  and 
had  advanced  somewhat  in  art.  He  was  one  of  those 
modern  scientists,  who  are  not  walled  in  by  past  conclu 
sions,  but  who,  like  Morse,  leap  forward  from  a  vantage 
point  and  build  back  to  connect  with  old  results.  Early 
in  life  he  had  studied  the  laws  of  vibration,  until  it  seemed 
revealed  to  him  that  all  forms,  all  fancies,  were  born  of  it. 
Gradually  as  his  beautiful  demonstrations  were  made  and 
all  art  co-ordinated  upon  this  law,  he  saw  in  dreams  a 
fulfillment  of  his  hopes  that  in  his  age,  in  his  life,  might 
bloom  the  fairest  flower  of  science,  a  mind  memory  opened 
to  mortal  consciousness. 

Dreaming  further  along  the  lines  of  Wagner,  it  had 
come  to  him  that  the  key  to  this  hidden,  dumb  and  sleep 
ing  record  of  the  mind  was  vibration ;  that  the  strains  of 
music  which  summon  beautiful  dreams  to  the  minds  of 
mejn  were  magic  wands  lifting  the  vision  of  this  past; 


THE  FACE  THAT  CAME  IN  DREAMS.  171 

not  its  immediate  past,  but  the  past  of  ages;  for  in  the 
brain  of  the  subtle  German  was  firmly  fixed  the  belief 
that  the  minds  of  men  were  in  their  last  analysis  one  and 
indivisible,  and  older  than  the  molecules  of  physical  crea 
tion. 

He  held  triumphantly  that  "then  shall  you  see  clearly," 
was  but  one  way  of  saying  "then  shall  you  remember." 

To  this  man  the  mind  picture  which  Gerald  had  drawn, 
the  church,  with  its  tragic  figures,  came  as  a  reward  of  a 
generation  of  labor.  He  had  followed  many  a  false 
trail  and  failed  in  hospital  and  asylum.  In  Gerald  he 
hoped  for  a  sound,  active  brain,  combined  with  the  faculty 
of  expression  in  many  languages  and  the  finer  power  of 
art;  an  organism  sufficiently  delicate  to  carry  into  that 
viewless  vinculum  between  body  and  soul;  vibration, 
rhythms  and  co-ordinations  delicate  enough  to  touch  a 
new  consciousness  and  return  its  reply  through  organized 
form.  He  had  found  these  conditions  perfect,  and  he 
felt  that  if  failure  was  the  result,  while  still  firmly  fixed  in 
his  belief,  never  again  would  an  opportunity  of  equal 
merit  present  itself.  If  in  Gerald  his  theory  failed  of 
demonstration,  the  mind's  past  would  be,  in  his  lifetime, 
locked  to  his  mortal  consciousness. 

Much  of  this  he  stated  as  they  sat  in  the  wing-room. 
Gerald  lay  upon  the  divan  when  he  began  talking,  lost 
in  abstraction,  but  as  the  theory  of  the  German  was  grad 
ually  unfolded  Edward  saw  him  fix  his  bright  eye  upon 
the  speaker,  saw  him  becoming  restless  and  excited. 
When  the  explanation  ended  he  was  walking  the  floor. 

"Experiments  with  frogs,"  he  said,  abruptly;  "acci 
dents  to  the  human  brain  and  vivisection  have  proved 
the  separateness  of  memory  and  consciousness.  But  I 
shall  do  better;  I  shall  give  to  the  world  a  complete 
picture  descended  from  parent  to  child — an  inherited 
brain  picture  of  which  the  mind  is  thoroughly  conscious." 
His  listeners  waited  in  breathless  suspense;  both  knew 
to  what  he  referred.  "But,"  he  added,  shaking  his  head, 
"that  does  not  carry  us  out  of  the  material  world." 

His  ready  knowledge  of  this  subject  and  his  quick 
grasp  of  the  proposition  astonished  Virdow  beyond  ex 
pression. 


172  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  simply. 

"When  that  fusion  of  mind  and  matter  occurs,"  said 
Gerald,  positively;  "when  the  consciousness  is  put  in 
touch  with  the  mind's  unconscious  memory  there  will  be 
no  pictures  seen,  no  records  read;  we  shall  simply 
bioaden  out,  comprehend,  understand,  grasp,  know! 
That  is  all!  It  will  not  come  to  the  world,  but  to  indi 
viduals,  and,  lastly,  it  has  already  come !  Every  original 
thought  that  dawns  upon  a  human,  every  intuitive  con 
ception  of  the  truth,  marks  the  point  where  a  mind 
yielded  something  of  a  memory  to  human  consciousness." 

The  professor  moved  uneasily  in  his  seat;  both  he 
and  Edward  were  overwhelmed  with  the  surprise  of  the 
demonstration  that  behind  the  sad  environment  of  this 
being  dwelt  a  keen,  logical  mind.  The  speaker  paused 
and  smiled;  his  attention  was  not  upon  his  company. 

"So,"  he  said,  softly,  "come  the  songs  into  the  mind  of 
the  poet,  so  the  harmonies  to  the  singer  and  so  the  com 
bination  of  colors  to  the  artist;  so  the  rounded  periods 
of  oratory  and  so  the  conception  that  makes  invention 
possible.  No  facts  appear,  because  facts  are  the  results 
of  laws,  the  proofs  of  truths.  The  mind-memory  carries 
none  of  these ;  it  carries  laws  and  the  truth  which  inter 
prets  it  all;  and  when  men  can  hold  their  consciousness 
to  the  touch  of  mind  without  a  falling  apart,  they  will 
stand  upon  the  plane  of  their  Creator,  because  they  will 
then  be  fully  conscious  of  the  eternal  laws  and  in  harmony 
with  them." 

"And  you,"  said  Virdow,  greatly  affected,  "have  you 
ever  felt  the  union  of  consciousness  and  mind  memory?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "what  I  have  said  is  the  truth;  for 
it  came  from  an  inner  consciousness  without  previous 
determination  and  intention.  I  am  right,  and  you  know 
I  am  right!"  Virdow  shook  his  head. 

"I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  gently,  "that  in  this  mind- 
memory  dwelt  pictures.  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see." 
Gerald  turned  away  impatiently  and  threw  himself  upon 
his  couch.  Presently  in  the  silence  which  ensued  rose 
the  solemn  measure  of  Mendelssohn's  heart-beat  march. 
The  strange,  sad,  depressing  harmony  filled  the  room; 
even  Virdow  felt  its  wonderful  power  and  sat  mute  and 


THE  FACE  THAT  CAME  IN  DREAMS.  173 

disturbed.  Suddenly  he  happened  to  gaze  toward  Gerald. 
He  lay  with  ashen  face  and  rigid  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ceiling,  to  all  appearances  a  corpse.  Virdow  bounded 
forward  and  snatched  the  bow  from  Edward's  hand. 

"Stop!"  he  cried;  "for  his  sake  stop,  or  you  will  kill 
him!" 

They  dragged  the  inanimate  form  to  the  window  and 
bathed  the  face.  A  low  moan  escaped  the  young  man, 
and  then  a  gleam  of  intelligence  came  into  his  eyes.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  without  success;  an  expression  of  sur 
prise  and  distress  came  upon  his  face  as  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  For  a  moment  he  stood  gasping,  but  presently  his 
breath  came  normally. 

"Temporary  aphasia,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone.  Going 
to  the  easel  he  drew  rapidly  the  picture  of  a  woman  kneel 
ing  above  the  prostrate  form  of  another,  and  stood  con 
templating  it  in  silence.  Edward  and  Virdow  came  to 
his  side,  the  latter  pale  with  excitement.  Gerald  did  not 
notice  them.  Only  the  back  of  the  kneeling  woman  was 
shown,  but  the  face  of  the  other  was  distinct,  calm  and 
beautiful.  It  was  the  girl  in  the  small  picture. 

"That  face—that  face,"  he  whispered.  "Alas!  I  see 
it  only  as  my  ancestors  saw  it."  He  resumed  his  lounge 
dejectedly. 

"You  have  seen  it  before,  then?"  said  Virdow,  earn 
estly. 

"Before!  In  my  dreams  from  childhood!  It  is  a  face 
associated  with  me  always.  In  the  night,  when  the  wind 
blows,  I  hear  a  voice  calling  Gerald,  and  this  vision 
comes.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret — "  His  voice  had  be 
come  lower  and  now  was  inaudible.  Placing  his  hand 
upon  the  white  wrist,  Virdow  said: 

"He  sleeps ;  it  is  well.  Come  away,  my  young  friend ; 
I  have  learned  much,  but  the  experience  might  have  been 
dearly  bought.  Sometime  I  will  explain."  Noiselessly 
they  withdrew  to  Edward's  room.  Edward  was  de 
pressed. 

"You  have  gained,  but  not  I,"  he  said.  The  back  of 
the  kneeling  woman  was  toward  him. 

"Wait,"  said  Virdow;  "all  things  cannot  be  learned  in 
a  night.  We  do  not  know  who  witnessed  that  scene." 


174  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   THREE    PICTURES. 

Virdow  had  arisen  and  been  to  town  when  Edward 
made  his  appearance  late  in  the  morning.  After  tossing 
on  his  pillow  all  night,  at  daylight  he  had  fallen  into  a 
long,  dreamless  sleep. 

Gerald  was  looking  on,  and  the  professor  was  arrang 
ing  an  experimental  apparatus  of  some  kind.  He  had 
suspended  a  metal  drum  from  the  arch  of  the  glass-room 
by  steel  wires,  and  over  the  upper  end  of  the  drum  had 
drawn  tightly  a  sheet  of  rubber  obtained  from  a  toy  bal 
loon  manufacturer.  In  the  base  of  this  drum  he  inserted 
a  hollow  stem  of  tin,  one  end  of  which  was  flared  like  a 
trumpet.  The  whole  machine  when  completed  presented 
the  appearance  of  a  gigantic  pipe;  the  mouthpiece  en 
larged.  When  Edward  came  in  the  German  was  spread 
ing  upon  the  rubber  surface  of  the  drum  an  almost  im 
palpable  powder,  taken  from  one  of  the  iron  nodules 
which  lay  about  on  the  surrounding  hills  and  slightly 
moistened. 

"I  have  been  explaining  to  Gerald,"  said  Virdow,  cheer 
ily,  "some  of  my  bases  for  hopes  that  vibration  is  the 
medium  through  which  to  effect  that  ether  wherein  floats 
what  men  call  the  mind,  and  am  getting  ready  to  show 
the  co-ordinations  of  forms  with  certain  measures  of 
vibration.  Edward,  you  have  a  trained  voice;  I  want  you 
to  sing  now  a  note  into  the  mouth  of  this  eidophone,  be 
ginning  with  medium  force  and  increasing  steadily  and 
evenly.  Try  what  you  Americans  call  'A'  in  the  middle 
register  and  remember  that  you  have  before  you  a  detec 
tive  that  will  catch  your  slightest  error."  He  was  closing 
doors  and  openings  as  he  spoke. 

Edward  obeyed.  Placing  his  mouth  near  the  trumpet 
opening  he  began.  The  simple  note,  prolonged,  rang 
out  in  the  silent  room,  increasing  in  strength  to  a  certain 
point  and  ending  abruptly.  Then  was  seen  a  marvelous 
thing;  animated,  the  composition  upon  the  disk  rushed 
to  the  exact  center  and  then  tremulously  began  to  take 


THE  THREE  PICTURES.  175 

definite  shape.  A  little  medallion  appeared,  surrounded 
by  minute  dots,  and  from  these  little  tongues  ran  out 
ward.  The  note  died  away,  and  only  the  breathing  of 
the  eager  watchers  was  heard.  Before  them  in  bas-relief 
was  a  red  daisy,  as  perfect,  aye,  more  nearly  perfect,  than 
art  could  supply.  Gerald  after  a  moment  turned  his 
head  and  seemed  lost  in  thought. 

"From  that  we  might  infer,"  said  Virdow,  "that  the 
daisy  is  the  'A'  note  of  the  world;  that  of  it  is  born  all 
the  daisy  class  of  flowers,  from  the  sunflower  down — all 
vibrations  of  a  standard." 

.  Again  and  again  the  experiment  was  repeated,  with  the 
same  result. 

"Now  try  'C,' "  said  the  German,  and  Edward  obeyed. 
Again  the  mass  rushed  together,  but  this  time  it  spread 
into  the  form  of  a  pansy.  And  then  with  other  notes 
came  fern  shapes,  trees  and  figures  that  resembled  the 
scale  armor  of  fish.  And  finally,  from  a  softly  sounded 
and  prolonged  note,  a  perfect  serpent  in  coils  appeared, 
with  every  ring  distinctly  marked.  This  form  was  varied 
by  repetition  to  shells  and  cornucopias. 

So  through  the  musical  scale  went  the  experiments, 
each  yielding  a  new  and  distinct  form  where  the  notes 
differed.  Virdow  enjoyed  the  wonder  of  Edward  and 
the  calm  concentration  of  Gerald.  He  continued: 

"Thus  runs  the  scale  in  colors;  each  of  the  seven — 
red,  orange,  yellow,  green,  blue,  indigo  and  violet — is  a 
note,  and  as  there  are  notes  in  music  that  harmonize,  so 
in  colors  there  are  the  same  notes,  the  hues  of  which 
blend  harmoniously.  What  have  they  to  do  with  the 
mind  memory?  This:  As  a  certain  number  of  vibrations 
called  to  life  in  music  the  shell,  in  light  the  color,  and  in 
music  the  note,  so  once  found  will  certain  notes,  or  more 
likely  their  co-ordinations,  awaken  the  memories  of  the 
mind,  since  infallibly  by  vibrations  were  they  first  born. 

"This  is  the  border  land  of  speculation,  you  think,  and 
you  are  partly  correct.  What  vibration  could  have  fixed 
the  form  of  the  daisy  and  the  shape  we  have  found  in 
nature  is  uncertain,  but  remember  that  the  earth  swings 
in  a  hollow  drum  of  air  as  resonant  and  infinitely  more 


176  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

sensitive  than  the  rubber;  and  the  brain — there  is  a 
philosophic  necessity  for  the  shape  of  a  man's  head." 

"If,"  said  Gerald,  "you  had  said  these  vibrations  awak 
ened  the  memories  of  the  brain  instead  of  mind,  I  could 
have  agreed  with  you.  Yours  are  on  the  order,  of  the 
London  experiments.  I  am  familiar  with  them,  but  only 
through  reading."  Again  Virdow  wondered,  but  he  con 
tinued: 

"The  powers  of  vibration  are  not  understood — in  fact, 
only  dreamed  of.  Only  one  man  in  the  world,  your 
Keely,  has  appreciated  its  possibilities,  and  he  is  involved 
in  the  herculean  effort  to  harness  it  to  modern  machinery. 
It  was  vibration  simply  that  affected  Gerald  so  deeply 
last  night;  a  rhythm  co-ordinating  with  his  heart.  I 
have  seen  vast  audiences — and  you  have,  too,  Edward 
— painfully  depressed  by  that  dangerous  experiment  oi 
Mendelssohn;  for  the  heart,  like  a  clock,  will  seek  to 
adjust  itself  to  rhythms.  Your  tempo  was  less  than 
seventy-two  to  the  minute ;  Gerald's  delicate  heart  caught 
time  and  the  brain  lacked  blood.  A  quick  march  would 
have  sent  the  blood  faster  and  brought  exhilaration. 
Under  the  influence  of  march  time  men  cheer  and  do 
deeds  of  valor  that  they  would  not  otherwise  attempt, 
though  the  measure  is  sounded  only  upon  a  drum;  but 
when  to  this  time  is  added  a  second,  a  third  and  a  fourth 
rhythm,  and  the  harmonies  of  tone  against  tone,  color 
against  color,  in  perfect  co-ordination,  they  are  no  longer 
creatures  of  reason,  but  heroes.  The  whole  matter  is 
subject  to  scientific  demonstration. 

"But  back  to  this  'heart-beat  march.'  The  whole  nerve 
system  of  man  since  the  infancy  of  the  race  has  been 
subject  to  the  rhythm  of  the  heart,  every  atom  of  the 
human  body  is  attuned  to  it;  for  while  length  of  life, 
breadth  of  shoulders,  chest  measure  and  stature  have 
changed  since  the  days  of  Adam  we  have  no  evidence 
that  the  solemn  measure  of  the  heart,  sending  its  seventy- 
two  waves  against  all  the  minute  divisions  of  the  human 
machine,  has  ever  varied  in  the  normal  man.  Lessen  it, 
as  on  last  night,  and  the  result  is  distressing.  And  as 
you  increase  it,  or  substitute  for  it  vibrations  more  rapid 
against  those  myriad  nerves,  you  exhilarate  or  intoxicate. 


THE  THREE  PICTURES.  177 

"But  has  any  one  ever  sent  the  vibration  into  that 
'viewless  vinculum'  and  awakened  the  hidden  mind?  As 
our  young  friend  testifies,  yes!  There  have  been  times 
when  these  lower  co-ordinations  of  song  and  melodies 
have  made  by  a  momentary  link  mind  and  matter  one, 
and  of  these  times  are  born  the  world's  greatest  treasures 
— jewels  wrested  from  the  hills  of  eternity!  What  has 
been  done  by  chance,  science  should  do  by  rule." 

Gerald  had  listened,  with  an  attention  not  hoped  for, 
but  the  conclusion  was  anticipated  in  his  quick  mind, 
Busy  with  his  portfolio,  he  did  not  attend,  but  upon  the 
professor's  conclusion  he  turned  with  a  picture  in  his 
hand.  It  was  the  drawing  of  the  previous  night. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"A  mind  picture,  possibly,"  said  Virdow. 

"You  mean  by  that  a  picture  never  impressed  upon  the 
brain,  but  living  within  the  past  experience  of  the  mind?" 

"Exactly." 

"And  I  say  it  is  simply  a  brain  picture  transmitted  to 
me  by  heredity." 

"I  deny  nothing;  all  things  are  possible.  But  by 
whom?  One  of  those  women?"  Gerald  started  violently 
and  looked  suspiciously  upon  his  questioner.  Virdow's 
face  betrayed  nothing. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Gerald ;  "you  have  gaps  in  your 
theory,  and  this  is  the  gap  in  mine.  Neither  of  these 
women  could  have  seen  this  picture;  there  must  have 
been  a  third  person."  Virdow  smiled  and  nodded  his 
head. 

"And  if  there  was  a  third  person  he  is  my  missing  wit 
ness.  From  him  comes  your  vision — a  true  mind  pic 
ture." 

"And  this?"  Gerald  drew  from  the  folio  a  woman's 
face — the  face  that  Edward  had  shown,  but  idealized  and 
etherealized.  "From  whom  comes  this?"  cried  the  young 
man  with  growing  excitement.  "For  I  swear  to  you  that 
I  have  never,  except  in  dreams,  beheld  it,  no  tongue  has 
described  it!  It  is  mine  by  memory  alone,  not  plucked 
from  subtle  ether  by  a  wandering  mind,  but  from  the 
walls  of  memory  alone.  Tell  me."  Virdow  shook  his 
head;  he  was  silent  for  fear  of  the  excitement.  But 
12 


178  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

Gerald  came  and  stood  by  him  with  the  two  pictures; 
his  voice  was  strained  and  impassioned,  and  his  tones 
just  audible: 

"The  face  in  this  and  the  sleeper's  face  in  this  are  the 
same;  if  you  were  on  the  stand  to  answer  for  a  friend's 
life  would  you  say  of  me,  this  man  descends  from  the 
kneeling  woman?"  Virdow  looked  upon  him  unflinch 
ingly. 

"I  would  answer,  as  by  my  belief  in  God's  creation, 
that  by  this  testimony  you  descend  from  neither,  for 
the  brain  that  held  those  pictures  could  belong  to  neither 
woman.  One  could  not  hold  an  etheralized  picture  of 
her  own  face,  nor  one  a  true  likeness  of  her  own  back." 
Gerald  replaced  the  sheets. 

"You  have  told  me  what  I  knew,"  he  said;  "and  yet 
— from  one  of  them  I  am  descended,  and  the  pictures 
are  true!"  He  took  his  hat  and  boat  paddle  and  left 
them  abruptly.  The  portfolio  stood  open.  Virdow  went 
to  close  it,  but  there  was  a  third  drawing  dimly  visible. 
Idly  he  drew  it  forth. 

It  was  the  picture  of  a  white  seagull  and  above  it  was 
an  arch;  beyond  were  the  bending  trees  of  the  first 
picture.  Both  men  studied  it  curiously,  but  with  varying 
emotions. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
"HOME,  SWEET    HOME." 

Edward  approached  the  hall  that  afternoon  with  mis 
givings.  A  charge  had  been  brought  against  him,  de- 
-nied,  and  the  denial  defended  with  his  life ;  but  the  charge 
was  not  disproved.  And  in  this  was  the  defect  of  the 
"code  of  honor."  It  died  not  because  of  its  bloodiness 
but  of  inadequacy.  A  correct  aim  could  not  be  a  satis 
factory  substitute  for  good  character  nor  good  morals. 

Was  it  his  duty  to  furnish  proof  to  his  title  to  the  name 
of  gentleman?  Or  could  he  afford  to  look  the  world 
in  the  face  with  disdain  and  hold  himself  above  suspicion? 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME.  179 

The  latter  course  was  really  his  only  choice.  He  had  no 
proofs. 

This  would  do  for  the  world  at  large,  but  among  inti 
mates  would  it  suffice?  He  knew  that  nowhere  in  the 
world  is  the  hearthstone  more  sacred  than  in  the  south, 
and  how  long  would  his  welcome  last,  even  at  the  hall, 
with  his  past  unexplained?  He  would  see!  The  first 
hesitancy  of  host  or  hostess,  and  he  would  be  self- 
banished! 

There  was  really  no  reason  why  he  should  remain  in 
America;  agents  could  transact  what  little  business  was 
his  and  look  after  Gerald's  affairs.  Nothing  had  changed 
within  him ;  he  was  the  same  Edward  Morgan,  with  the 
same  capacities  for  enjoyment. 

But  something  had  changed.  He  felt  it  with  the  mere 
thought  of  absence.  What  was  it?  As  in  answer  to  his 
mental  question,  there  came  behind  him  the  quick  breath 
of  a  horse  and  turning  he  beheld  Mary.  She  smiled  in 
response  to  his  bow.  The  next  instant  he  had  descended 
from  his  buggy  and  was  waiting. 

"May  I  ride  with  you?"  Again  the  face  of  the  girl 
lighted  with  pleasure. 

"Of  course.  Get  down,  Jerry,  and  change  places  with 
Mr.  Morgan."  Jerry  made  haste  to  obey.  "Now,  drop 
behind,"  she  said  to  him,  as  Edward  seated  himself  by 
her  side. 

"You  see  I  have  accepted  your  invitation,"  he  began-; 
"only  I  did  not  come  as  soon  as  I  wished  to,  or  I  would 
have  answered  your  kind  note  at  once  in  person.  All 
are  well,  I  trust?"  Her  face  clouded. 

"No.  Mamma  has  become  entirely  blind — probably 
for  all  time.  I  have  just  been  in  to  telegraph  Dr.  Camp 
bell  to  come  to  us.  We  will  know  to-morrow."  He  was 
greatly  distressed. 

"My  visit  is  inopportune — I  will  turn  back.  No,  I  was 
going  from  the  hall  to  the  general's ;  I  can  keep  straight 
on." 

"Indeed,  you  shall  not,  Mr.  Morgan.  Mamma  is  bear 
ing  up  bravely,  and  you  can  help  so  much  to  divert  her 
mind  if  you  tell  her  of  your  travels."  He  assented  read 
ily.  It  was  a  novel  sensation  to  find  himself  useful. 


180  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

"To-morrow  morning,"  she  continued,  "perhaps  I  can 
find  time  to  go  to  the  general's — if  you  really  want 
to  go — " 

"I  do,"  he  said.  "My  German  friend,  Virdow,  has  a 
theory  he  wishes  to  demonstrate  and  has  asked  me  to 
find  the  dominant  tones  in  a  waterfall;  I  remembered 
the  general's  little  cascade,  and  owing  him  a  visit  am 
going  to  discharge  both  duties.  What  a  grand  old  man 
the  general  is!" 

"Oh,  indeed,  yes.  You  do  not  know  him,  Mr.  Morgan. 
If  you  could  have  seen  how  he  entered  into  your  quar 
rel — "  she  blushed  and  hesitated.  "Oh,  what  an  outrage 
was  that  affair!" 

"It  is  past,  Miss  Montjoy;  think  no  more  upon  it. 
It  was  I  who  cost  your  father  his  seat  in  congress.  That 
is  the  lamentable  feature." 

"That  is  nothing,"  said  the  young  girl,  "compared  with 
the  mortification  and  peril  forced  upon  you.  But  you 
had  friends — more  than  you  dreamed  of.  The  general 
says  that  the  form  of  your  note  to  Mr.  Royson  saved  you 
a  grave  complication." 

"You  mean  that  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Barksdale  for 
that?" 

"Yes.  I  love  Mr.  Barksdale;  he  is  so  manly  and 
noble."  Edward  smiled  upon  her;  he  was  not  jealous  of 
that  kind  of  love. 

"He  is  certainly  a  fine  character — the  best  product  of 
the  new  south,  I  take  it.  I  have  neglected  to  thank 
him  for  his  good  offices.  I  shall  call  upon  him  when  I 
return." 

"And,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "of  course  you  will 
assure  the  general  of  your  gratitude  to-morrow.  You 
owe  him  more  than  you  suspect.  I  would  not  have  you 
fail  there." 

"And  why  would  you  dislike  to  have  me  fail?"  She 
blushed  furiously  when  she  realized  how  she  had  become 
involved,  but  she  met  his  questioning  gaze  bravely. 

"You  forget  that  I  introduced  you  as  my  friend,  and 
one  does  not  like  for  friends  to  show  up  in  a  bad  light." 

He  fell  into  moody  silence,  from  which  with  difficulty 
only  he  could  bring  himself  to  reply  to  questions  as  she 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME.  1B1 

led  the  way  from  personal  grounds.  The  hall  saved  him 
from  absolute  disgrace. 

In  the  darkened  sitting-room  was  Mrs.  Montjoy  when 
the  girl  and  the  young  man  entered.  She  lifted  her  pa 
tient  face  where  she  sat  knitting  and  turned  her  bandaged 
eyes  to  the  door  as  she  heard  their  voices  in  the  hall. 

"Mamma,  here  is  Mr.  Morgan,"  said  Mary.  The  fam 
ily  had  instinctively  agreed  upon  a  cheerful  tone;  the 
great  oculist  was  coming;  it  was  but  a  question  of  time 
when  blessed  sight  would  return  again.  The  colonel 
raised  himself  from  the  lounge  where  he  had  been  dozing 
and  came  forward.  Edward  could  not  detect  in  his  grave 
courtesy  the  slightest  deviation  of  manner.  He  wel 
comed  him  smilingly  and  inquired  of  Gerald.  And  then, 
continuing  into  the  room,  the  young  man  took  the  soft 
hand  of  the  elder  woman.  She  placed  the  other  on  his 
and  said  with  that  singular  disregard  of  words  peculiar 
to  the  blind: 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Morgan.  We  have  been 
so  distressed  about  you.  I  spent  a  wretched  day  and 
night  thinking  of  your  worry  and  danger." 

"They  are  all  over  now,  madam;  but  it  is  pleasant  to 
know  that  my  friends  were  holding  me  up  all  the  time. 
Naturally  I  was  somewhat  lonesome,"  he  said,  forcing  a 
smile,  "until  the  general  came  to  my  rescue."  Then  rec 
ollecting  himself,  he  added  with  feeling:  "But  those  hours 
were  as  nothing  to  this,  madam.  You  cannot  understand 
how  distressed  I  was  to  learn,  as  I  have  just  now,  of  your 
illness."  She  patted  his  hand  affectionately,  after  the 
manner  of  old  ladies. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can.  Mary  has  told  us  of  your  offer  to  take 
us  to  Paris  on  that  account.  I  am  sure  sometimes  that 
one's  misfortunes  fall  heaviest  upon  friends." 

"It  is  not  too  late,"  he  said,  earnestly.  "If  the  colonel 
will  keep  house  and  trust  you  two  with  me,  it  is  not  too 
late.  Really,  I  am  almost  obliged  to  visit  Paris  soon, 
and  if — "  he  turned  to  the  colonel  at  a  loss  for  words. 
That  gentleman  had  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead 
and  was  looking  away. 

"You  are  more  than  kind,  my  young  friend,"  he  said, 


182  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

sadly;  "more  than  kind.  We  will  see  Campbell.  If  it 
is  necessary  Mrs.  Montjoy  will  go  to  Paris." 

Mary  had  been  a  silent  witness  of  the  little  scene.  She 
turned  away  to  hide  her  emotion,  fearful  that  her  voice, 
if  she  spoke,  would  betray  her.  The  Duchess  came  in 
and  climbed  onto  grandma's  lap  and  wound  her  arms 
around  the  little  woman.  The  colonel  had  resumed  his 
seat  when  Mary  brought  in  from  the  hall  the  precious 
violin  and  laid  it  upon  the  piano,  waiting  there  until  the 
conversation  lagged. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  then,  "Mr.  Morgan  has  his  violin ; 
he  was  on  his  way  through  here  to  the  general's  when  I 
intercepted  him.  I  know  you  can  rely  upon  him  to  play 
for  us." 

"As  much  and  as  often  as  desired,"  said  Edward  heart 
ily.  "I  have  a  friend  at  home,  an  old  professor  with  whom 
I  studied  in  Germany,  who  is  engaged  in  some  experi 
ments  with  vibration,  and  he  has  assigned  me  rather  a 
novel  task — that  is,  I  am  to  go  over  to  the  general's  and 
determine  the  tone  of  a  waterfall,  for  everything  has  its 
tone — your  window  glass,  your  walking  stick,  even — and 
these  will  respond  to  the  vibrations  which  make  that  tone. 
Your  memories  are  born  of  vibration,  and  old  airs  bring 
back  old  thoughts."  He  arose  and  took  the  violin  as  he 
talked. 

If  the  presence  of  the  silent  sufferer  was  not  sufficient 
to  touch  his  heart,  there  were  the  brown,  smiling  eyes  of 
the  girl  whose  fingers  met  his  as  he  took  the  instrument. 
He  played  as  seldom  if  ever  before.  Something  went 
from  him  into  the  ripe,  resonant  instrument,  something 
that  even  Virdow  could  not  have  explained,  and  through 
the  simple  melodies  he  chose,  affected  his  hearers  deeply. 
Was  it  the  loneliness  of  the  man  speaking  to  the  loneli 
ness  of  the  silent  woman,  whose  bandaged  forehead  rested 
upon  one  blue-veined  hand?  Or  was  it  a  new  spring 
opened  up  by  the  breath,  the  floating  hair,  the  smooth 
contour  of  cheeks,  the  melting  depths  of  brown  eyes,  the 
divine  sympathy  of  the  girl  who  played  his  accompani 
ments? 

All  the  old  music  of  the  blind  woman's  girlhood  had 
been  carefully  bound  and  preserved,  as  should  all  old  mu- 


HOME,  SWEET  HOME.  183 

sic  be  when  it  has  become  a  part  of  our  lives ;  and  as  this 
man  with  his  subtle  power  awoke  upon  that  marvelous 
instrument  the  older  melodies  he  gave  life  to  the  dreams 
of  her  girlish  heart.  Just  so  had  she  played  them — if  not 
so  true,  yet  feelingly.  By  her  side  had  stood  a  gallant 
black-haired  youth,  looking  down  into  her  face,  reading 
more  in  her  upturned  eyes  than  her  tongue  had  ever  ut 
tered;  eyes  then  liquid  and  dark  with  the  light  of  love 
beaming  from  their  depths;  alas,  to  beam  now  no  more 
forever!  Love  must  find  another  speech.  She  reached 
out  her  hand  and  in  eloquent  silence  it  was  taken. 

Silence  drew  them  all  back  to  earth.  But  behind  the 
players  an  old  man's  face  was  bent  upon  the  smooth 
soft  hand  of  the  woman,  and  eyes  that  must  some  day  see 
for  both  of  them,  left  their  tender  tribute. 

Edward  Morgan  linked  himself  to  others  in  that  hour 
with  strands  stronger  than  steel.  Even  the  little  Duchess 
felt  the  charm  and  power  of  that  violin  in  the  hands  of 
the  artist.  Wondering,  she  came  to  him  and  stretched 
up  her  little  hands.  He  took  her  upon  his  knee  then,  and, 
holding  the  instrument  under  her  chin  and  her  hands  in 
his,  awoke  a  little  lullaby  that  had  impressed  him.  As 
he  sung  the  words,  the  girl  smiled  into  the  faces  of  the 
company. 

"Look,  gamma,"  she  said  gleefully;  "look!"  And  she, 
lifting  her  face,  said  gently : 

"Yes,  dear;  grandma  is  looking."  Mary's  face  was 
quickly  averted;  the  hands  of  the  colonel  tightened  upon 
the  hand  he  held. 

The  Duchess  had  learned  to  sing  "Rockaby  Baby"  and 
now  she  lifted  her  thin,  piping  voice,  the  player  readily 
following,  and  sung  sweetly  all  the  verses  she  could  re 
member.  Mary  took  her  in  her  arms  when  tired,  and 
Edward  let  the  strains  run  on  slower  and  softer.  The 
eyes  of  the  little  one  drooped  wearily,  and  then  as  the 
player,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  little  scene,  drifted  away 
into  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  they  closed  in  sleep.  The 
blind  woman  still  sat  with  her  hand  in  her  husband's,  his 
head  bent  forward  until  his  forehead  rested  upon  it. 


184  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

• 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  MIST. 

Mary  had  lighted  him  to  his  room  and  handed  him  the 
lamp;  "sweet  sleep  and  pleasant  dreams,"  she  had  said, 
gravely  bowing  to  him  as  she  withdrew — a  family  custom, 
as  he  had  afterward  learned.  But  the  sleep  was  not  sweet 
nor  the  dreams  pleasant.  Excited  and  disturbed  he  dozed 
away  the  hours  and  was  glad  when  the  plantation  bell 
rung  its  early  summons.  He  dressed  and  made  his  way 
to  the  veranda,  whence  he  wandered  over  the  flower  gar 
den,  intercepting  the  colonel,  who  was  about  to  take  his 
morning  look  about.  Courteously  leaving  his  horse  at 
the  gate  that  gentleman  went  on  foot  with  him.  It  was 
Edward's  first  experience  on  a  plantation  and  he  viewed 
with  lively  interest  the  beginning  of  the  day's  labor.  Cot 
ton  was  opening  and  numbers  of  negroes,  old  and  young, 
were  assembling  with  baskets  and  sacks  or  moving  out 
with  a  show  of  industry,  for,  as  it  was  explained  to  him,  it 
is  easy  to  get  them  early  started  in  cotton-picking  time, 
as  the  work  is  done  by  the  hundred  pounds  and  the  morn 
ing  dew  counts  for  a  great  deal.  "Many  people  deduct  for 
that,"  said  Montjoy,  "but  I  prefer  not  to.  Lazy  as  he  is, 
the  negro  is  but  poorly  paid." 

"But,"  said  Edward,  laughing,  "you  do  not  sell  the  dew, 
I  suppose?" 

"No.  Generally  it  evaporates,  but  if  it  does  not  the 
warehouse  deducts  for  it." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  great  many  old  negroes." 

"Too  many;  too  many,"  he  said,  sadly;  "but  what  can 
be  done?  These  people  have  been  with  me  all  my  life 
and  I  can't  turn  them  adrift  in  their  old  age.  And  the 
men  seem  bent  upon  keeping  married,"  he  added,  good- 
naturedly.  "When  the  old  wives  die  they  get  new  and 
young  ones,  and  then  comes  extravagant  living  again." 

"And  you  have  them  all  to  support?" 

"Of  course.  The  men  do  a  little  chopping  and  cotton- 
picking,  but  not  enough  to  pay  for  the  living  of  themselves 
and  families.  What  is  it,  Nancy?" 


THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  MIST.  185 

"Pa  says  please  send  him  some  meal  and  meat.  He 
ain't  had  er  mouthful  in  four  days."  The  speaker  was  a 
little  negro  girl.  "Go,  see  your  young  mistress.  That  is 
a  specimen,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  half-laughing,  half- 
frowning.  "Four  days!  He  would  have  been  dead  the 
second!  Our  system  does  not  suit  the  new  order  of 
things.  It  seems  to  me  the  main  trouble  is  in  the  cur 
rency.  Our  values  have  all  been  upset  by  legislation. 
Silver  ought  never  have  been  demonetized;  it  was  fatal, 
sir.  And  then  the  tariff." 

"Is  not  overproduction  a  factor,  colonel?  I  read  that 
your  last  crops  of  cotton  were  enormous." 

"Possibly  so,  but  the  world  has  to  have  cotton,  and  a 
little  organization  would  make  it  buy  at  our  own  prices. 
These  are  enormous  variations,  of  course,  we  can't  figure 
in  advance,  and  whenever  a  low  price  rules,  the  country  is 
broke.  The  result  is  the  loan  associations  and  cotton  fac 
tors  are  about  to  own  us." 

The  two  men  returned  to  find  Mary  with  the  pigeons 
upon  her  shoulders  and  a  flock  of  poultry  begging  at  her 
feet. 

"You  are  going  with  me  to  the  general's,"  he  said, 
pleadingly,  as  he  stood  by  her.  She  shook  her  head. 

"I  suppose  not  this  time;  mamma  needs  me."  But  at 
the  breakfast  table,  when  he  renewed  the  subject,  that 
lady  from  her  little  side  table  said  promptly :  "Yes."  Mary 
needed  the  exercise  and  diversion,  and  then  there  was  a 
little  mending  to  be  done  for  the  old  general.  He  always 
saved  it  for  her.  It  was  his  whim. 

So  they  started  in  Edward's  buggy,  riding  in  silence 
until  he  said  abruptly : 

"I  am  persevering,  Miss  Montjoy,  as  you  will  some  day 
find  out,  and  I  am  counting  upon  your  help." 

"In  what?"    She  was  puzzled  by  his  manner. 

"In  getting  Moreau  in  Paris  to  look  into  the  little 
mamma's  eyes."  She  reflected  a  moment. 

"But  Dr.  Campbell  is  coming." 

"It  is  through  him  I  was  going  to  accomplish  my  pur 
pose  ;  he  must  send  her  to  Paris." 

"But,"  she  said,  sadly,  "we  can't  afford  it.  Norton 
could  arrange  it,  but  papa  would  not  be  willing  to  incur 
such  a  debt  for  him," 


186  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"His  son — her  son!"  Edward  showed  his  surprise  very 
plainly. 

"You  do  not  understand.  Norton  has  a  family;  neither 
papa  nor  mamma  would  borrow  from  him,  although 
he  would  be  glad  to  do  anything  in  the  world  he  could. 

And  there  is  Annie "  she  stopped.  Edward  saw  the 

difficulty. 

"Would  your  father  accept  a  loan  from  me?"  She 
flushed  painfully. 

"I  think  not,  Mr.  Morgan.  He  could  hardly  borrow 
money  of  his  guest." 

"But  I  will  not  be  his  guest,  and  it  will  be  a  simple 
business  transaction.  Will  you  help  me?"  She  was  silent. 

"It  is  very  hard,  very  hard,"  she  said,  and  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes.  "Hard  to  have  mamma's  chances  hang  upon 
such  a  necessity." 

"Supposing  I  go  to  your  father  and  say:  This  thing 
is  necessary  and  must  be  done.  I  have  money  to  invest 
at  5  per  cent  and  am  going  to  Paris.  If  you  will  secure 
me  with  a  mortgage  upon  this  place  for  the  necessary 
amount  I  will  pay  all  expenses  and  take  charge  of  your 
wife  and  daughter.'  Would  it  offend  him?" 

"He  could  not  be  offended  by  such  generosity,  but  it 
would  distress  him — the  necessity." 

"That  would  not  count  in  the  matter,"  he  said,  gravely. 
"He  is  already  distressed.  And  what  is  all  this  to  a  wo 
man's  eyesight?" 

"How  am  I  to  help?"  she  asked  after  a  while. 

"The  objection  will  be  chiefly  upon  your  account,  I  am 
afraid,"  he  said,  after  reflection.  "You  will  have  to  waive 
everything  and  second  my  efforts.  That  will  settle  it." 
She  did  not  promise,  but  seemed  lost  in  thought.  When 
she  spoke  again  it  was  upon  other  things. 

"Ah,  truant!"  cried  the  general,  seeing  her  ascending 
the  steps  and  coming  forward,  "here  you  are  at  last. 
How  are  you,  Morgan?  Sit  down,  both  of  you.  Mary," 
he  said,  looking  at  her  sternly,  "if  you  neglect  me  this 
way  again  I  shall  go  off  and  marry  a  grass  widow.  Do 
you  hear  me,  miss?  Look  at  this  collar."  He  pointed 
dramatically  to  the  offending  article;  one  of  the  Byronic 
affairs,  to  which  the  old  south  clings  affectionately,  and 


THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  MIST.  187 

which  as  affectionately  clings  to  the  garment  it  is  sup 
posed  to  adorn,  since  it  is  a  part  of  it.  "I  have  buttoned 
that  not  less  than  a  dozen  times  to-day."  She  laughed 
and,  going  in,  presently  returned  with  thread  and  needle 
and  sitting  upon  his  knee  restored  the  buttonhole  to  its 
proper  size.  Then  she  surveyed  him  a  moment. 

"Why  haven't  you  been  over  to  see  us?" 

"Because " 

''You  will  have  to  give  the  grass  widow  a  better  ex 
cuse  than  that.  Tis  a  woman's  answer.  But  here  is  Mr. 
Morgan,  come  to  see  if  he  can  catch  the  tune  your  water 
fall  plays — if  you  have  no  objection."  Edward  explained 
the  situation. 

"Go  with  him,  Mary.  I  think  the  waterfall  plays  a 
better  tune  to  a  man  when  there  is  a  pretty  girl  around." 
She  playfully  stopped  his  mouth  and  then  darted  into  the 
house. 

"General,"  said  Edward,  earnestly,  "I  have  not  written 
to  you.  I  preferred  to  come  in  person  to  express  anew 
my  thanks  and  appreciation  of  your  kindness  in  my  re 
cent  trial.  The  time  may  come " 

"Nonsense,  my  boy;  we  take  these  things  for  granted 
here  in  the  south.  If  you  are  indebted  to  anybody  it  is  to 
the  messenger  who  brought  me  the  news  of  your  predica 
ment,  put  me  on  horseback  and  sent  me  hurrying  off  in 
the  night  to  town  for  the  first  time  in  twenty  years." 

"And  who  could  have  done  that?"  he  asked.  Evan's 
keen  glance  read  that  he  was  genuinely  surprised. 

"Well,"  he  said,  enjoying  the  other's  interest,  "if  I 
wasn't  afraid  she  would  overhear  me  I  would  tell  you." 

"And  was  she  the  messenger?"  Edward  asked,  over 
whelmed  with  emotion.  "From  whom?" 

"From  nobody.  She  summed  up  the  situation,  got  be 
hind  the  little  mare  and  came  over  here  in  the  night.  Mor 
gan,  that  is  the  rarest  girl  in  Georgia.  Take  care,  sir;  take 
care,  sir."  He  was  getting  himself  indignant  over  some 
contingency  when  the  object  of  his  eulogium  appeared. 

"Now,  general,  you  are  telling  tales  on  me." 

"Am  I?  Ask  Morgan.  I'd  swear  on  a  stack  of  bibles 
as  high  as  yonder  pine  I  have  not  mentioned  your  name." 

"Well,  it  is  a  wonder.    Come  on,  Mr.  Morgan." 


188  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

The  old  man  watched  them  as  they  picked  their  way 
through  the  hedge  and  concluded  his  interrupted  remark : 
"If  you  break  that  loyal  heart — if  you  bring  a  tear  to 
those  brown  eyes,  you  will  meet  a  different  man  than  Roy- 
son."  But  he  drove  the  thought  away  while  he  looked  af 
fectionately  after  the  pair. 

Down  came  the  little  stream,  with  an  emphasis  and 
noise  disproportioned  to  its  size,  the  cause  being,  as  Ed 
ward  guessed,  the  distance  of  the  fall  and  the  fact  that  the 
rock  on  which  it  struck  was  not  a  solid  foundation,  but 
rested  above  a  cavity.  Mary  waited  while  he  listened, 
turning  away  to  pluck  a  flower  and  to  catch  in  the  falling 
mist  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  But  as  Edward  stood, 
over  him  came  a  flood  of  thoughts ;  for  the  air  was  full  of 
a  weird  melody,  the  overtone  of  one  great  chord  that 
thrilled  him  to  the  heart.  As  in  a  dream  he  saw  her  stand 
ing  there,  the  blue  skies  and  towering  trees  above  her,  a 
bit  of  light  in  a  desert  of  solitude.  Near,  but  separated 
from  him  by  an  infinite  gulf.  "Forever"  was  the  one  word 
that  seemed  to  roll  up  and  mock  him  from  the  depths, 
and  in  that  strange  sad  tone.  "Forever!  Forever!"  all 
else  was  blotted  out. 

She  saw  on  his  face  the  white  desperation  she  had  no 
ticed  once  before. 

"You  have  found  it,"  she  said.    "What  is  the  tone?" 

"Despair,"  he  answered,  sadly.  "It  can  mean  nothing 
else." 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  a  new  thought  animating  her 
mobile  face,  as  she  pointed  in,to  the  mist  above,  "over  it 
hangs  the  rainbow." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
THE  HAND  OF  SCIENCE. 

A  feeling  of  apprehension  and  solemnity  pervaded  the 
hall  when  at  last  the  old  family  coach  deposited  its  single 
occupant,  Dr.  Campbell,  at  the  gate.  The  colonel  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  to  welcome  him.  Edward  and  Mary 
were  waiting  in  the  sitting-room. 


THE  HAND  OF  SCIENCE.  189 

The  famous  practitioner,  a  tall,  shapely  figure,  entered, 
and  as  he  removed  his  glasses  he  brought  sunshine  into 
the  room,  with  his  cheery  voice  and  confident  manner. 
To  Mrs.  Montjoy  he  said: 

"I  came  as  soon  as  the  telegram  was  received.  Anxiety 
and  loss  of  rest  in  cases  like  yours  are  exceedingly  unde 
sirable.  It  is  better  to  be  informed — even  of  the  worst. 
Before  we  discuss  this  matter,  come  to  the  window  and 
let  me  examine  the  eye,  please."  He  was  assisting  her 
as  he  spoke.  He  carefully  studied  the  condition  of  the 
now  inflamed  and  sightless  organ,  and  then  replaced  the 
bandage. 

"It  is  glaucoma,"  he  said,  briefly.  "You  will  remember 
that  I  feared  it  when  we  fitted  the  glasses  some  years 
ago.  The  slowness  of  its  advance  is  due  to  the  care  you 
have  taken.  If  you  are  willing  I  would  prefer  to  operate 
at  once."  All  were  waiting  in  painful  silence.  The  brave 
woman  replied:  "Whenever  you  are  ready  I  am,"  and  re 
sumed  her  knitting.  He  had  been  deliberate  in  every 
word  and  action,  but  the  occasion  was  already  robbed  of 
half  its  terrors,  so  potent  are  confidence,  decision  and 
action.  Edward  was  introduced  and  would  have  taken  his 
leave,  but  the  oculist  detained  him. 

"I  shall  probably  need  you,"  he  said,  "and  will  be 
obliged  if  you  remain.  The  operation  is  very  simple." 

The  room  was  soon  prepared;  a  window  was  thrown 
open,  a  lounge  drawn  under  it  and  bandages  prepared. 
Mary,  pale  with  emotion,  when  the  slender  form  of  her 
mother  was  stretched  upon  the  lounge  hurriedly  with 
drew.  The  colonel  seated  himself  and  turned  away  his 
face.  There  was  no  chloroform,  no  lecture.  With  the 
simplicity  of  a  child  at  play,  the  great  man  went  to  work. 
Turning  up  the  eyelid,  he  dropped  upon  the  cornea  a  little 
cocaine,  and  selecting  a  minute  scalpel  from  his  case, 
with  two  swift,  even  motions  cut  downward  from  the 
center  of  the  eye  and  then  from  the  same  starting  point  at 
right  angles.  The  incisions  extended  no  deeper  than  the 
transparent  epidermis  of  the  organ.  Skillfully  turning 
up  the  angle  of  this,  he  exposed  a  thin,  white  growth — a 
minute  cloud  it  seemed  to  Edward. 

"Another  drop  of  cocaine,  please,"  the  pleasant  voice 


190  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

of  the  oculist  recalled  him,  and  upon  the  exposed  point 
he  let  fall  from  the  dropper  the  liquid.  Lifting  the  little 
cloud  with  keen  pinchers,  the  operator  removed  it,  re 
stored  the  thin  epidermis  to  its  place,  touched  it  again 
with  cocaine,  and  replaced  the  bandage.  The  strain  of 
long  hours  was  ended;  he  had  not  been  in  the  house 
thirty  minutes. 

"I  felt  but  the  scratch  of  a  needle,"  said  the  patient;  "it 
is  indeed  ended?" 

"All  over,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  He  then  wrote  out  a 
prescription  and  directions  for  dressing,  to  be  given  to 
the  family  physician.  Mary  was  already  by  her  mother's 
side,  holding  and  patting  her  hand. 

The  famous  man  was  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  and 
now  entered  into  a  cheerful  discussion  of  former  times 
and  mutual  acquaintances.  The  little  boy  had  entered, 
and  somehow  had  got  into  his  lap,  where  all  children  usu 
ally  got  who  came  under  his  spell.  While  talking  on 
other  subjects  he  turned  down  the  little  fellow's  lids. 

"I  see  granulation  here,  colonel.  Attend  to  it  at  once. 
I  will  leave  a  prescription."  And  then  with  a  few  words 
of  encouragement,  he  went  off  to  the  porch  to  smoke. 

After  dinner  the  conversation  came  back  to  the  patient. 

"She  will  regain  her  vision  this  time,"  said  Dr.  Camp 
bell,  "but  the  disease  can  only  be  arrested;  it  will  return. 
The  next  time  it  will  do  no  good  to  operate.  It  is  better 
to  know  these  things  and  prepare  for  them."  The  silence 
was  broken  by  Edward. 

"Are  you  so  sure  of  this,  doctor,  that  you  would  advise 
against  further  consultation?  In  Paris,  for  instance,  is 
Moreau.  In  your  opinion,  is  there  the  slightest  grounds 
for  his  disagreeing  with  you?" 

"In  my  opinion,  no.  But  my  opinion  never  extends  to 
the  point  of  neglecting  any  means  open  to  us.  Were  I 
afflicted  with  this  disease  I  would  consult  everybody  with 
in  reach  who  had  had  experience."  Edward  glanced  in 
triumph  at  Mary.  Dr.  Campbell  continued: 

"I  would  be  very  glad  if  it  were  possible  for  Mrs.  Mont- 
joy  to  see  Moreau  about  the  left  eye.  You  will  remember 
that  I  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  the  hopelessness  of  restor 
ing  that  one  when  it  was  lost.  It  was  not  affected  with 


THE  HAND  OF  SCIENCE.  191 

glaucoma;  there  is  a  bare  possibility  that  something  might 
be  done  for  it  with  success.  If  the  disease  returns  upon 
the  right  eye,  the  question  of  operating  upon  the  other 
might  then  come  up  again."  Edward  waited  a  moment 
and  then  continued  his  questions: 

"Do  you  not  think  a  sea  voyage  would  be  beneficial, 
doctor?" 

"Undoubtedly,  if  she  is  protected  from  the  glare  and 
dust  while  ashore.  We  can  only  look  to  building  up  her 
general  health  now."  Edward  turned  away,  with  throb 
bing  pulses. 

"But,"  continued  the  doctor,  "of  course  nothing  of  this 
sort  should  be  attempted  until  the  eye  is  perfectly  well 
again;  say  in  ten  days  or  two  weeks."  Mary  sat  with 
bowed  head.  She  did  not  see  why  Dr.  Campbell  arose 
presently  and  walked  to  where  Edward  was  standing. 
She  looked  upon  them  there.  Edward  was  talking  with 
eager  face  and  the  other  studying  him  through  his  glasses. 
But  somehow  she  connected  his  parting  words  with  that 
short  interview. 

"And  about  the  sea  voyage  and  Moreau,  colonel ;  I  do 
not  know  that  I  ought  to  advise  you,  but  I  shall  be  glad 
if  you  find  it  convenient  to  arrange  that,  and  will  look  to 
you  to  have  Moreau  send  me  a  written  report.  Good-by." 
But  Edward  stopped  him. 

"I  am  going  back  directly,  doctor,  and  can  take  you 
and  the  carriage  need  not  return  again.  I  will  keep  you 
waiting  a  few  moments  only."  He  drew  Col.  Montjoy 
aside  and  they  walked  to  the  rear  veranda. 

"Colonel,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "I  want  to  make  you  an 
offer,  and  I  do  it  with  hesitancy  only  because  I  am  afraid 
you  cannot  understand  me  thoroughly  upon  such  short 
acquaintance.  I  believe  firmly  in  this  trip  and  want  you 
to  let  me  help  you  bring  it  about.  Without  having  inter 
ested  myself  in  your  affairs,  I  am  assured  that  you  stand 
upon  the  footing  of  the  majority  of  southerners  whose 
fortunes  were  staked  upon  the  confederacy,  and  that 
just  now  it  would  inconvenience  you  greatly  to  meet  the 
expense  of  this  experiment.  I  want  you  to  let  me  take 
the  place  of  John  Morgan  and  do  just  as  he  would  have 
done  in  this  situation — advance  you  the  necessary  money 


192  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

upon  your  own  terms."  As  he  entered  upon  the  subject 
the  old  gentleman  looked  away  from  him,  and  as  he  pro 
ceeded  Edward  could  see  that  he  was  deeply  affected.  He 
extended  his  hand  impulsively  to  the  young  man  at  last 
and  shook  it  warmly.  Tears  had  gathered  in  his  eyes. 
Edward  continued: 

"I  appreciate  what  you  would  say,  colonel;  you  think 
it  too  much  for  a  comparative  stranger  to  offer,  or  for 
you  to  accept,  but  the  matter  is  not  one  of  your  choosing. 
The  fortunes  of  war  have  brought  about  the  difficulty, 
and  that  is  all.  You  have  risked  your  all  on  that  issue 
and  have  lost.  You  cannot  risk  the  welfare  of  your  wife 
upon  an  issue  of  pride.  You  must  accept.  Go  to  Gen. 
Evan ;  he  will  tell  you  so." 

"I  cannot  consider  the  offer,  my  young  friend,  in  any 
other  than  a  business  way.  Your  generosity  has  already 
put  us  under  obligation  we  can  never  pay  and  has  only 
brought  you  mortification." 

"Not  so,"  was  the  reply.  "In  your  house  I  have  known 
the  first  home  feeling  I  ever  experienced.  Colonel,  don't 
oppose  me  in  this.  If  you  wish  to  call  it  business,  give  it 
that  term." 

"Yours  will  be  the  fourth  mortgage  on  this  place;  I 
hesitate  to  offer  it.  The  hall  is  already  pledged  for  $15,- 
ooo." 

"It  is  amply  sufficient." 

"I  will  consider  the  matter,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  said  after 
a  long  silence ;  "I  will  consider  it  and  consult  Evan.  I  do 
not  see  my  way  clear  to  accept  your  offer,  but  whether 
or  not,  my  young  friend" — putting  his  arm  over  the  oth 
er's  shoulder,  his  voice  trembling — "whether  I  do  or  not 
you  have  in  making  it  done  me  an  honor  and  a  favor  that 
I  will  remember  for  life.  It  is  worth  something  to  meet 
a  man  now  and  then  who  is  worthy  to  have  lived  in  nobler 
times.  God  bless  you — and  now  you  must  excuse  me." 
He  turned  away  abruptly.  Thrilled  by  his  tone  and 
words,  Edward  went  to  the  front.  As  he  stiook  hands 
with  Mary  he  said : 

"I  cannot  tell  yet.  But  he  cannot  refuse.  There  is  no 
escape  for  him." 

At  the  depot  in  the  city  the  doctor  said :    "Do  not  count 


THE  HAND  OP  SCIENCE.  193 

too  hopefully  upon  Paris,  my  young  friend.  There  is  a 
chance,  but  in  my  opinion  the  greatest  good  that  can  be 
achieved  is  for  the  patient  to  store  in  memory  scenes  upon 
which  in  other  days  she  may  dwell  with  pleasure.  Keep 
this  in  mind  and  be  governed  accordingly."  He  climbed 
aboard  the  train  and  waved  an  adieu. 

Edward  was  leaving  the  depot  when  he  overtook 
Barksdale.  Putting  his  buggy  in  the  care  of  a  boy,  he 
walked  on  with  the  railroader  at  his  request  to  the  club. 
Barksdale  took  him  into  a  private  room  and  over  a  choice 
cigar  Edward  gave  him  all  the  particulars  of  the  duel 
and  then  expressed  his  grateful  acknowledgments  for 
the  friendly  services  rendered  him. 

"I  am  assured  by  Gen.  Evan,"  he  said,  "that  had  my 
demand  been  made  in  a  different  form  I  might  have  been 
seriously  embarrassed." 

"Royson  depended  upon  the  Montjoys  to  get  him  out 
of  the  affair;  he  had  no  idea  of  fighting." 

"But  how  could  the  Montjoys  have  helped  him?" 

"They  could  have  appealed  to  him  to  withdraw  the 
charges  he  had  made,  and  he  would  have  done  so  because 
the  information  came  really  from  a  member  of  the  Mont- 
joy  family.  I  do  not  think  you  will  need  to  ask  her  name. 
I  mention  it  to  you  because  you  should  be  informed." 
Edward  comprehended  his  meaning  at  once.  Greatly 
agitated,  he  exclaimed : 

"But  what  object  could  she  have  had  in  putting  out 
such  slander?  I  do  not  know  her  nor  she  me."  Barks- 
dale  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly : 

"You  do  not  know  much  of  women." 

"No.     I  have  certainly  not  met  this  kind  before." 

Barksdale  reflected  a  few  moments,  and  then  said, 
slowly:  "Slander  is  a  curious  thing,  Mr.  Morgan.  People 
who  do  not  believe  it  will  repeat  it.  I  think  if  I  were 
you  I  would  clear  up  all  these  matters  by  submitting  to 
an  interview  with  a  reporter.  In  that  you  can  place  your 
own  and  family  history  before  the  public  and  end  all 
talk."  Edward  was  pale,  but  this  was  the  suggestion  that 
he  had  considered  more  than  once.  He  shook  his  head 
quickly. 

"I  disagree  with  you.  I  think  it  beneath  the  dignity 
13 


194  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

of  a  gentleman  to  answer  slander  by  the  publication  of 
his  family  history.  If  the  people  of  this  city  require  such 
statements  from  those  who  come  among  them,  then  I 
shall  sell  out  my  interest  here  and  go  abroad,  where  I  am 
known.  This  I  am,  however,  loath  to  do;  I  have  a  few 
warm  friends  here."  Barksdale  extended  his  hand. 

"You  will,  I  hope,  count  me  among  them.  I  spoke 
only  from  a  desire  to  see  you  fairly  treated." 

"I  have  reason  to  number  you  among  them.  I  am 
going  to  Paris  shortly,  I  think,  with  Mrs.  Montjoy.  Her 
eyesight  is  failing.  I  will  be  glad  to  see  you  again  before 
then." 

"With  Mrs.  Montjoy?"  exclaimed  Barksdale. 

"Yes;  the  matter  is  not  entirely  settled  yet,  but  I  do 
not  doubt  that  she  will  make  the  trip.  Miss  Montjoy  will 
go  with  us." 

Barksdale  did  not  lift  his  eyes,  but  was  silent,  his  hand 
toying  with  his  glass. 

"I  will  probably  call  upon  you  before  your  departure," 
he  said,  as  he  arose. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
THE  FLASHLIGHT  PHOTOGRAPH. 

Twilight  was  deepening  over  the  hills  and  already  the 
valleys  were  in  shadow  when  Edward  reached  Ilexhurst. 
He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  back  on  the  city  and  the 
hills  beyond.  He  seemed  to  be  laying  aside  a  sweeter  life 
for  something  less  fair,  and  the  old  weight  descended 
upon  him.  After  all  was  it  wise  to  go  forth,  when  the 
return  to  the  solitude  of  a  clouded  life  was  inevitable? 
There  was  no  escape  from  fate. 

In  the  east  the  hills  were  darkening,  but  memory  flash 
ed  on  him  a  scene — a  fair-faced  girl,  as  he  had  seen  her, 
as  he  would  always  see  her,  floating  upon  an  amethyst 
stream,  smiling  upon  him,  one  hand  laving  the  waters  and 
over  them  the  wonders  of  a  southern  sunset. 

In  the  wing-room  Virdow  and  Gerald  were  getting 


THE  FLASHLIGHT  PHOTOGRAPH.  195 

ready  for  an  experiment  with  flashlight  photography. 
Refusing  to  be  hurried  in  his  scientific  investigations, 
Gerald  had  insisted  that  until  it  had  been  proved  that 
a  living  substance  could  hold  a  photographic  imprint  he 
should  not  advance  to  the  consideration  of  Virdow's  the 
ory.  There  must  be  brain  pictures  before  there  could 
be  mind  pictures.  At  least,  so  he  reasoned.  None  of 
them  knew  exactly  what  his  experiment  was  to  be,  except 
that  he  was  going  to  test  the  substance  that  envelops  the 
body  of  the  bass,  the  micopterus  salmoides  of  southern 
waters.  That  sensitive  plate,  thinner  than  art  could  make 
it,  was  not  only  spoiled  by  exposure  to  light,  but  by  light 
and  air  combined  was  absolutely  destroyed.  And  the 
difficulty  of  controlling  the  movements  of  this  fish  seemed 
absolutely  insuperable.  They  could  only  watch  the  ex 
perimenter. 

Into  a  thin  glass  jar  Gerald  poured  a  quantity  of  pow^ 
der,  which  he  had  carefully  compounded  during  the 
day.  Virdow  saw  in  it  the  silvery  glimmer  of  magnesium. 
What  the  combined  element  was  could  not  be  deter 
mined.  This  compound  reached  only  a  third  of  the  dis 
tance  up  the  side  of  the  glass.  The  jar  was  then  stopped 
with  cork  pierced  by  a  copper  wire  that  touched  the 
powder,  and  hermetically  sealed  with  wax.  With  this 
under  one  arm,  and  a  small  galvanic  battery  under  the 
other,  and  restless  with  suppressed  excitement,  Gerald, 
pointing  to  a  small  hooded  lantern,  whose  powerful  re 
flector  was  lighting  one  end  of  the  room,  bade  them 
follow  him. 

Virdow  and  Edward  obeyed.  With  a  rapid  stride 
Gerald  set  out  across  fields,  through  strips  of  woodlands 
and  down  precipitous  slopes  until  they  stood  all  breath 
less  upon  the  shore  of  the  little  lake.  There  they  found 
the  flat-bottom  bateau,  and  although  by  this  time  both 
Edward  and  Virdow  had  begun  seriously  to  doubt  the 
wisdom  of  blindly  following  such  a  character,  they  re 
signed  themselves  to  fate  and  entered. 

Gerald  propelled  the  little  craft  carefully  to  a  stump 
that  stood  up  distinct  against  the  gloom  under  the  search 
light  in  the  bow,  and  reaching  it  took  out  his  pocket 
compass.  Turning  the  boat's  head  northeast,  he  fol- 


196  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

lowed  the  course  about  forty  yards  until  at  the  left  the 
reflector  showed  him  two  stakes  in  line.  Here  he  brought 
the  little  craft  to  a  standstill,  and  in  silence,  which  he 
invoked  by  lifting  his  hand  warningly,  turned  the  lantern 
downward  over  the  stern  of  the  boat,  and  with  a  tube, 
whose  lower  end  was  stubbed  with  a  bit  of  glass  and 
inserted  in  the  water,  examined  the  bottom  of  the  lake 
twenty  feet  below.  Long  and  patient  was  the  search, 
but  at  last  the  others  saw  him  lay  aside  his  glass  and 
let  the  boat  drift  a  few  moments.  Then  very  gently,  only 
a  ripple  of  the  surface  marking  the  action,  he  lowered 
the  weighted  jar  until  the  slackening  wire  indicated  that 
it  was  upon  the  bottom.  He  reached  out  his  hand 
quickly  and  drew  the  battery  to  him,  firmly  grasping  the 
cross-handle  lever.  The  next  instant  there  was  a  rum 
bling,  roaring  sound,  accompanied  by  a  fierce,  white  light, 
and  the  end  of  the  boat  was  in  the  air.  In  a  brief  moment 
Edward  saw  the  slender  form  of  the  enthusiast  bathed 
in  the  flash,  his  face  as  white  as  chalk,  his  eyes  afire 
with  excitement — the  incarnation  of  insanity,  it  seemed 
to  him.  Then  there  was  a  deluge  of  spray,  a  violent 
rocking  of  the  boat  and  the  water  in  it  went  over  their 
shoetops.  Instantly  all  was  inky  blackness,  except 
where  in  the  hands  of  the  fearless  man  in  the  stern  the 
lantern,  its  slide  changed,  was  now  casting  a  stream  of 
red  light  upon  the  surface  of  the  lake.  Suddenly  Gerald 
uttered  a  loud  cry. 

"Look!  Look!  There  he  is!"  And  floating  in  that 
crimson  path,  with  small  fishes  rising  around  him,  was 
the  dead  body  of  a  gigantic  bass.  Lifting  him  carefully 
by  the  gills,  Gerald  laid  him  in  a  box  drawn  from  under 
the  rear  seat. 

"What  is  it?"  broke  from  Virdow,  whose  anxiety  was 
glad  to  find  expression.  "We  have  risked  our  lives  and 
ruined  our  clothes — for  what?" 

"For  a  photograph  upon  a  living  substance!  On  the 
side  of  this  fish,  which  was  exposed  to  the  flashlight, 
you  will  find  the  outlines  of  the  grasses  in  this  lake,  or 
the  whole  film  destroyed.  If  the  outlines  are  there  then 
there  is  no  reason  why  the  human  brain,  infinitely  more 
sensitive  and  forever  excluded  from  light,  cannot  contain 


THE  FLASHLIGHT  PHOTOGRAPH.  19? 

the  pictures  of  those  twin  cameras — the  human  eyes." 
He  turned  the  boat  shoreward  and  seizing  his  box  dis 
appeared  in  the  darkness,  his  enlarged  pupils  giving  him 
the  visual  powers  of  a  night  animal.  Virdow  and  Ed 
ward,  even  aided  by  the  lantern,  found  their  way  back 
with  difficulty. 

The  two  men  entered  the  wing-room  to  find  it  vacant. 
Virdow,  however,  pointed  silently  to  the  red  light  gleam 
ing  through  the  glass  of  the  little  door  to  the  cabinet. 
The  sound  of  trickling  water  was  heard. 

At  that  instant  a  smothered  half-human  cry  came  from 
within,  and,  holding  the  fish  at  arm's  length,  ghastly 
pale  and  trembling  violently,  Gerald  staggered  into  the 
room.  They  took  hold  of  him,  fearing  he  would  fall. 
Straining  their  eyes,  they  both  saw  for  an  instant  only 
the  half-developed  outlines  of  a  human  profile  extended 
along  the  broad  side  of  the  fish.  As  they  watched,  the 
surface  grew  into  one  tone  and  the  carcass  fell  to  the 
floor. 

Gazing  into  their  faces  as  he  struggled  for  freedom, 
Gerald  cast  off  their  hands.  The  lithe,  sinewy  form 
seemed  to  be  imbued  at  the  moment  with  the  strength 
of  a  giant.  Before  they  could  speak  he  had  seized  the 
lantern  and  was  out  into  the  night.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  Edward,  bareheaded,  plunged  after  him.  Well 
trained  to  college  athletics  though  he  was,  yet  unfamiliar 
with  the  grounds,  it  taxed  his  best  efforts  to  keep  him  in 
sight.  He  divined  that  the  wild  race  would  end  at  the 
lake,  and  the  thought  that  on  a  few  seconds  might  hang 
the  life  of  that  strange  being  was  all  that  held  him  to  the 
prolonged  and  dangerous  strain.  He  reached  the  shore 
just  in  time,  by  plunging  waist  deep  into  the  water,  to 
throw  himself  into  the  boat.  His  own  momentum  thrust 
it  far  out  upon  the  surface. 

With  unerring  skill  and  incredible  swiftness,  the  young 
man  carried  the  boat  over  its  former  course  and  turned 
the  glare  of  the  lamp  downward.  Suddenly  he  uttered 
a  loud  cry,  and,  dropping  the  lantern  in  the  boat,  stood 
up  and  leaped  into  the  water.  The  light  was  now  out 
and  all  was  as  black  as  midnight. 

Edward  slipped  off  his  shoes,  seized  the  paddle  and 


198  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

waited  for  a  sound  to  guide  him.  It  seemed  as  though 
nothing  human  could  survive  that  prolonged  submer 
gence;  minutes  appeared  to  pass;  with  a  groan  of  de 
spair  he  gave  up  hope. 

But  at  that  'moment,  with  a  gasp,  the  white  face  of 
Gerald  burst  from  the  waters  ten  feet  away,  and  the 
efforts  he  made  showed  that  he  was  swimming  with  diffi 
culty.  With  one  mighty  stroke  Edward  sent  the  boat 
to  the  swimmer  and  caught  the  floating  hair.  Then  with 
great  difficulty  he  drew  him  over  the  side. 

"Home !"  The  word  escaped  from  Gerald  between  his 
gasps,  but  when  he  reached  the  shore,  with  a  return  of 
energy  and  a  total  disregard  of  his  companion,  he 
plunged  into  the  darkness  toward  the  house,  Edward 
this  time  keeping  him  within  view  with  less  difficulty. 

They  reached  the  door  of  the  wing-room  almost  simul 
taneously  and  rushed  in  side  by  side,  Gerald  dripping 
with  water  and  exhausted.  He  leaned  heavily  against 
the  table.  For  the  first  time  Edward  was  conscious  that 
he  carried  a  burden  in  his  arms.  In  breathless  silence, 
he  with  Virdow  approached,  and  then  upon  the  table 
Gerald  placed  an  object  and  drew  shuddering  back.  It 
was  a  half  life-size  bust  of  darkened  and  discolored  mar 
ble,  and  for  them,  though  trembling  with  excitement,  it 
seemed  to  have  no  especial  significance  until  they  were 
startled  by  a  cry  so  loud,  so  piercing,  so  heartrending, 
that  they  felt  the  flesh  creep  upon  their  bones. 

Looking  from  the  marble  to  the  face  of  the  young  man 
they  saw  that  the  whiteness  of  death  was  upon  every 
feature.  Following  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  they  beheld 
a  silhouette  upon  the  wall;  the  clear-cut  profile  of  a 
woman,  cast  by  the  carved  face  before  them.  To  Ed 
ward  it  was  an  outline  vaguely  familiar;  to  Virdow  a 
revelation,  for  it  was  Edward's  own  profile.  Had  the 
latter  recognized  it  there  would  have  been  a  tragedy,  for, 
without  a  word  after  that  strange,  sad,  despairing  cry, 
Gerald  wrenched  a  dagger  from  the  decorated  panel,  and 
struck  at  his  own  heart.  It  was  Edward's  quickness  that 
saved  him;  the  blade  made  but  a  trifling  flesh  wound. 
Seizing  him  as  he  did  from  the  rear  he  was  enabled  to 
disturb  his  equilibrium  in  time. 


THE    TRADE   WITH    SLIPPERY    DICK.  199 

"Morphine,"  he  said  to  Virdow.  The  latter  hurried 
away  to  secure  the  drug.  He  found  with  the  pellets  a 
little  pocket  case  containing  morphine  powders  and  a 
hypodermic  injector.  Without  a  struggle,  Gerald  lay 
breathing  heavily.  In  a  few  minutes  the  drug  was  ad 
ministered,  and  then  came  peace  for  the  sufferer.  Ed 
ward  released  his  hold  and  looked  about  him.  Virdow 
had  moved  the  bust  and  was  seated  lost  in  thought. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  asked,  approaching,  awed  and 
saddened  by  his  experience.  Virdow  held  up  the  little 
bust. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  that  face  before?" 
"It  is  the  face  of  the  young  woman  in  the  picture !" 
"And  now,"  said  Virdow,  again  placing  the  marble  so 
as  to  cast  its  outlines  upon  the  wall,  "you  do  not  recog 
nize  it,  but  the  profile  is  your  own!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  TRADE  WITH  SLIPPERY  DICK. 

Amos  Royson,  in  the  solitude  of  his  room,  had  full  time 
for  reflection  upon  the  events  of  the  week  and  upon  his 
position.  His  face,  always  sinister,  had  not  improved 
under  its  contact  with  the  heavy  dueling  pistol  driven  so 
savagely  against  it.  The  front  teeth  would  be  replaced 
and  the  defect  concealed  under  the  heavy  mustache  he 
wore,  and  the  cut  and  swollen  lips  were  resuming  their 
normal  condition.  The  missing  finger,  even,  would  in 
convenience  him  only  until  he  had  trained  the  middle  one 
to  discharge  its  duties — but  the  nose !  He  trembled  with 
rage  when  for  the  hundredth  time  he  studied  his  face 
in  the  glass  and  realized  that  the  best  skill  of  the  surgeon 
had  not  been  able  to  restore  its  lines. 

But  this  was  not  the  worst.  He  had  carefully  scanned 
the  state  press  during  his  seclusion  and  awoke  from  his 
personal  estimate  to  find  that  public  opinion  was  over 
whelmingly  against  him.  He  had  slandered  a  man  for 


200  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

political  purposes  and  forced  a  fight  upon  a  stranger  to 
whom,  by  every  right  of  hospitality,  the  city  owed  a  wel 
come.  The  general  public  could  not  understand  why  he 
had  entered  upon  the  duel  if  his  charges  were  true,  and 
if  not  true  why  he  had  not  had  the  manliness  to  with 
draw  them. 

Moreover,  he  had  incurred  the  deadly  enmity  of  the 
people  who  had  been  deceived  in  the  lost  county.  One 
paper  alluded  to  the  unpleasant  fact  that  Edward  Morgan 
was  defending  and  aiding  Mr.  Royson's  connections  at 
the  time  of  the  insult. 

He  had  heard  no  word  from  Swearingen,  who  evidently 
felt  that  the  matter  was  too  hot  at  both  ends  for  him  to 
handle  safely.  That  gentleman  had,  on  the  contrary,  in 
a  brief  card  to  one  of  the  papers,  disclaimed  any  knowl 
edge  of  the  unfortunate  letter  and  declined  all  responsi 
bility  for  it.  This  was  sufficient,  it  would  seem,  to  render 
almost  any  man  unhappy,  but  the  climax  was  reached 
when  he  received  a  letter  from  Annie,  scoring  him  un 
mercifully  for  his  clumsiness  and  informing  him  that  Ed 
ward  Morgan,  so  far  from  being  destroyed  in  a  certain 
quarter,  was  being  received  in  the  house  as  a  friend  to 
whom  all  were  indebted,  and  was  petted  and  made  much 
of. 

"So  far  as  I  can  judge,"  she  added,  maliciously,  "it 
seems  settled  that  Mary  is  to  marry  him.  He  is  much 
with  Col.  Montjoy  and  is  now  upon  a  confidential  footing 
with  every  one  here.  Practically  he  is  already  a  member 
of  the  family."  It  contained  a  request  for  him  to  inform 
her  when  he  would  be  at  his  office. 

He  had  not  replied  to  this ;  he  felt  that  the  letter  was 
aimed  at  his  peace  of  mind  and  the  only  satisfaction  he 
could  get  out  of  this  affair  .was  the  recollection  that  he 
had  informed  her  father-in-law  of  her  perfidy. 

"I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  old  gentleman's  mind  at 
work  with  Annie  purring  around  him,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  and  the  idea  brought  the  first  smile  his  face  had 
known  for  many  a  day.  But  a  glimpse  of  that  face  in 
the  glass,  with  the  smile  upon  it,  startled  him  again. 

What  next?  Surrender?  There  was  no  surrender 
in  the  make-up  of  the  man.  His  legal  success  had 


THE    TRADE    WITH    SLIPPERY    DICK.  201 

hinged  less  upon  ability  than  upon  dogged  pertinacity. 
In  this  way  he  had  saved  the  life  of  more  than  one  crim 
inal  and  won  a  reputation  that  brought  him  practice. 
He  had  made  a  charge,  had  been  challenged  and  had 
fought.  With  almost  any  other  man  the  issue  would 
have  been  at  an  end  as  honorably  settled,  but  his  habit 
of  mind  was  opposed  to  accepting  anything  as  settled 
which  was  clearly  unsettled.  The  duel  did  not  give 
Morgan  the  rights  of  a  gentleman  if  the  main  charge  were 
true,  and  Royson  had  convinced  himself  that  it  was  true. 
He  wrote  to  Annie,  assured  that  her  visit  would  develop 
his  next  move. 

So  it  was  that  one  morning  Royson  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  his  cousin,  in  the  office.  There  was  no  word 
of  sympathy  for  him.  He  had  not  expected  one,  but  he 
was  hardly  prepared  for  the  half-smile  which  came  over 
her  face  when  he  greeted  her,  and  which,  during  their 
interview,  returned  from  time  to  time.  This  enraged  him 
beyond  endurance,  and  nothing  but  the  remembrance  that 
she  alone  held  the  key  to  the  situation  prevented  his 
coming  to  an  open  breach  with  her.  She  saw  and  read 
his  struggle  aright,  and  the  display  put  her  in  the  best 
of  humor. 

"When  shall  we  see  you  at  the  hall  again?"  she  asked, 
coolly. 

"Never,"  he  said,  passionately,  "until  this  man  Morgan 
is  exposed  and  driven  out."  She  arched  her  brows. 

"Never,  then,  would  have  been  sufficient." 

"Annie,  this  man  must  be  exposed;  you  have  the 
proofs — you  have  information;  give  it  to  me."  She 
shook  her  head,  smiling. 

"I  have  changed  my  mind,  Amos;  I  do  not  want  to 
be  on  bad  terms  with  my  brother-in-law  of  the  future; 
the  fact  is,  I  am  getting  fond  of  him.  He  is  very  kind 
to  everybody.  Mother  is  to  go  to  Paris  to  have  her  eyes 
attended  to,  and  Mary  is  to  accompany  her.  Mr.  Mor 
gan  has  been  accepted  as  their  escort." 

The  face  of  the  man  grew  crimson  with  suppressed 
rage.  By  a  supreme  effort  Royson  recovered  and  re 
turned  the  blow. 

"What  a  pity,  Annie,   it  could  not  have  been  you! 


202  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

Paris  has  been  your  hobby  for  years.  When  Mary  re 
turns  she  can  tell  you  how  to  dress  in  the  best  form  and 
correct  your  French."  It  was  a  successful  counter.  She 
was  afraid  to  trust  herself  to  reply.  Royson  drew  his 
chair  nearer. 

"Annie,"  he  said,  "I  would  give  ten  years  of  life  to 
establish  the  truth  of  what  you  have  told  me.  So  far 
as  Mary  is  concerned,  we  will  leave  that  out,  but  I  am 
determined  to  crush  this  fellow  Morgan  at  any  cost. 
Something  tells  me  we  have  a  common  cause  in  this 
matter.  Give  me  a  starting  point — you  owe  me  some 
thing.  I  could  have  involved  you ;  I  fought  it  out  alone." 
She  reflected  a  moment. 

"I  cannot  help  you,  now,  as  much  as  you  may  think. 
I  am  convinced  of  what  I  told  you,  but  the  direct  proof  is 
wanting.  You  can  imagine  how  difficult  such  proof  is. 
The  man  is  30  years  old,  probably,  and  witnesses  of  his 
mother's  times  are  old  or  dead." 

"And  what  witnesses  could  there  have  been?" 

"Few.  John  Morgan  is  gone.  The  next  witness  would 
be  Rita.  Rita  is  the  woman  who  kept  Morgan's  house 
for  the  last  thirty  years.  She  owned  a  little  house  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  hall  and  was  until  she  went  to 
Morgan's  a  professional  nurse.  There  may  be  old  ne 
groes  who  can  give  you  points." 

"And  Rita — where  is  she?" 

"Dead!" 

A  shade  of  disappointment  swept  over  his  face.  He 
caught  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  the  most  peculiar 
expression.  "She  is  the  witness  on  whom  I  relied,"  she 
said,  slowly.  "She  was,  I  believe,  the  only  human  being 
in  the  world  who  could  have  furnished  conclusive  testi 
mony  as  to  the  origin  of  Edward  Morgan.  She  died 
suddenly  the  day  your  letter  was  published!"  She  did 
not  look  away  as  she  concluded,  but  continued  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  his;  and  gradually,  as  he  watched  her, 
the  brows  contracted  slightly  and  the  lids  tightened  under 
them.  A  gleam  of  intelligence  passed  to  him.  His  face 
grew  white  and  his  hands  closed  convulsively  upon  the 
arms  of  his  chair. 

"But  that  would  be  beyond  belief,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a 


THE    TRADE   WITH    SLIPPERY    DICK.  203 

whisper.  "If  what  you  think  true  is  true,  he  was  her 
son!"  She  raised  her  brows  as  she  replied: 

"There  was  no  tie  of  association!  With  him  every 
thing  was  at  stake.  You  can  probably  understand  that 
when  a  man  is  in  love  he  will  risk  a  great  deal." 

Royson  arose  and  walked  the  room.  No  man  knew 
better  than  he  the  worst  side  of  the  human  heart.  There 
is  nothing  so  true  in  the  history  of  crime  as  that  reputa 
tion  is  held  higher  than  conscience.  And  in  this  case 
there  was  the  terrible  passion  of  love.  He  did  not  reply 
to  her  insinuation. 

"You  think,  then,"  he  said,  stopping  in  front  of  the 
woman,  "that,  reading  my  letter,  he  rushed  home,  and 
in  this  you  are  correct  since  I  saw  him  across  the  street 
reading  the  paper,  and  a  few  minutes  later  throw  him 
self  into  a  hack  and  take  that  direction ;  that  he  rushed 
into  the  presence  of  this  woman,  demanded  the  truth, 
and,  receiving  it,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  killed  her!" 

"What  I  may  think,  Amos,  is  my  right  to  keep  to 
myself.  The  only  witness  died  that  day !  There  was  no 
inquest!  You  asked  me  for  a  starting  point."  She  drew 
her  gloves  a  little  tighter,  shook  out  her  parasol  and  rose. 
"But  I  am  giving  you  too  much  of  my  time.  I  have 
some  commissions  from  Mary,  who  is  getting  ready  for 
Paris,  and  must  leave  you." 

He  neither  heard  her  last  remark  nor  saw  her  go. 
Standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  his  chin  upon 
his  chest,  he  was  lost  to  all  consciousness  of  the  moment. 
When  he  looked  to  the  chair  she  had  occupied  it  was 
vacant.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow.  The  scene 
seemed  to  have  been  a  dream. 

But  Amos  Royson  knew  it  was  real.  He  had  asked 
for  a  starting  point,  and  the  woman  had  given  it. 

As  he  considered  it,  he  unconsciously  betrayed  how 
closely  akin  he  was  to  the  woman,  for  every  fact  that 
came  to  him  was  in  that  legal  mind,  trained  to  building 
theories,  adjusted  in  support  of  the  hypothesis  of  crime. 
He  was  again  the  prosecuting  attorney.  How  natural 
at  least  was  such  a  crime,  supposing  Morgan  capable  of  it. 

And  no  man  knew  his  history! 

With  one  blow  he  had  swept  away  the  witness.  That 
had  been  done  a  thousand  times  in  the  annals  of  crime. 


204  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

Poison,  the  ambush,  the  street  encounter,  the  midnight 
shot  through  the  open  window,  the  fusillade  at  the  form 
outlined  in  i^s  own  front  door;  the  press  had  recorded 
it  since  the  beginning  of  newspapers.  Morgan  had  added 
one  more  instance.  And  if  he  had  not,  the  suspicion, 
the  investigation,  the  doubt  would  remain! 

At  this  point  by  a  perfectly  natural  process  the  mind 
of  the  man  reached  its  conclusion.  Why  need  there  be 
any  suspicion,  any  doubt?  Why  might  not  an  inquest 
develop  evidences  of  a  crime?  This  idea  involved  action 
and  decision  upon  his  part,  and  some  risk. 

At  last  he  arose  from  the  desk,  where,  with  his  head 
upon  his  hand,  he  had  studied  so  long,  and  prepared  for 
action.  At  the  lavatory  he  caught  sight  of  his  own  coun 
tenance  in  the  glass.  It  told  him  that  his  mind  was 
made  up.  It  was  war  to  the  knife,  and  that  livid  scar 
upon  the  pallor  of  his  face  was  but  the  record  of  the  first 
failure.  The  next  battle  would  not  be  in  the  open,  with 
the  skies  blue  above  him  and  no  shelter  at  hand.  His 
victim  would  never  see  the  knife  descend,  but  it  would 
descend  nevertheless,  and  this  time  there  would  be  no 
trembling  hand  nor  failure  of  nerve. 

From  his  office  he  went  direct  to  the  coroner's  and 
examined  the  records.  The  last  inquest  was  of  the  day 
previous;  the  next  in  line  more  than  a  month  before. 
There  was  no  woman's  name  upon  the  list.  So  far  Annie 
was  right. 

Outside  of  cities  in  the  south  no  burial  permits  are 
required.  Who  was  the  undertaker?  Inquiry  would 
easily  develop  the  fact,  but  this  time  he  was  to  remain 
in  the  dark.  If  this  crime  was  fastened  upon  Morgan, 
the  motive  would  be  self-evident  and  a  reaction  of  public 
opinion  would  re-establish  Royson  high  in  favor.  His 
experience  would  rank  as  martyrdom. 

But  a  new  failure  would  destroy  him  forever,  and  there 
was  not  a  great  deal  left  to  destroy,  he  felt. 

In  the  community,  somewhere,  was  a  negro  whose 
only  title  was  "Slippery  Dick"  won  in  many  a  hotly  con 
tested  criminal  trial.  It  had  been  said  of  this  man  that 
the  entire  penal  code  was  exhausted  in  efforts  to  con 
vict  him,  and  always  without  success.  He  had  been 
prosecuted  for  nearly  every  offense  proscribed  by  state 


THE  FACE  OF  THE  BODY-SNATCHER.     205 

laws.  Royson's  first  experience  with  the  man  was  as 
prosecuting  attorney.  Afterward  and  within  the  pre 
ceding  year  he  had  defended  him  in  a  trial  for  body- 
snatching  and  had  secured  a  verdict  by  getting  upon  the 
jury  one  man  who  was  closely  kin  to  the  person  who 
purchased  the  awful  merchandise.  This  negro,  plausible 
and  cunning,  hesitated  at  nothing  short  of  open  murder 
— or  such  was  his  reputation.  It  was  to  find  him  that 
Royson  went  abroad.  Nor  was  it  long  before  he  suc 
ceeded. 

That  night,  in  a  lonely  cabin  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
city,  a  trade  was  made.  Ten  dollars  in  hand  was  paid. 
If  upon  an  inquest  by  the  coroner  it  was  found  that  there 
was  a  small  wound  on  the  back  of  the  head  of  the  woman 
and  the  skull  fractured,  Slippery  Dick  was  to  receive 
$100  more. 

This  was  the  only  risk  Royson  would  permit  himself 
to  take,  and  there  were  no  witnesses  to  the  trade.  Dick's 
word  was  worth  nothing.  Discovery  could  not  affect  the 
plot  seriously,  and  Dick  never  confessed.  The  next  day 
he  met  Annie  upon  the  road,  having  seen  her  in  the  city, 
and  posted  himself  to  intercept  her. 

"I  have  investigated  the  death  of  Rita,"  he  said,  "and 
am  satisfied  that  there  are  no  grounds  for  suspecting 
murder.  We  will  wait!"  The  woman  looked  him  in  the 
face. 

"Amos,"  she  said,  "if  you  were  not  my  cousin,  I  would 
say  that  you  are  an  accomplished  liar!"  Before  he  re 
plied  there  was  heard  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet.  Edward 
Morgan  drove  by,  gravely  lifting  his  hat. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  FACE  OF  THE  BODY-SNATCHER. 

The  methods  of  Royson's  emissary  were  simple  and 
direct.  One  day  he  wandered  in  among  the  negroes  at 
Ilexhurst  in  search  of  a  lost  hound  puppy,  for  Dick  was 
a  mighty  hunter,  especially  of  the  midnight  'possum. 


206  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

No  one  had  seen  the  puppy,  but  all  were  ready  to  talk, 
and  the  death  of  Rita  had  been  the  latest  sensation. 
From  them  he  obtained  every  detail  from  the  time  Ed 
ward  had  carried  the  body  in  his  arms  to  the  little  house, 
until  it  had  been  buried  under  the  crooked  cedar  in  the 
plantation  burying-ground. 

The  body  had  been  dressed  by  two  of  the  women. 
There  had  been  a  little  blood  on  her  head,  from  a  small 
wound  in  the  left  temple,  where  she  had  cut  herself  against 
the  glass  when  she  was  "taken  with  a  fit." 

The  coffin  was  a  heavy  metal  one  and  the  top  screwed 
on.  That  was  all. 

When  Royson  received  the  report  of  the  cut  in  the 
head  and  the  blood,  his  breath  almost  forsook  him.  Mor 
gan  might  have  been  innocent,  but  what  a  chain  of  cir 
cumstantial  evidence!  If  Dick  should  return  to  tell  him 
some  morning  that  the  false  wound  he  was  to  make  was 
already  on  the  spot  selected,  he  would  not  be  sur 
prised.  So  far  he  could  show  a  motive  for  the  crime, 
and  every  circumstance  necessary  to  convict  his  enemy 
with  it.  All  he  needed  was  a  cause  of  death. 

Dick's  precautions  in  this  venture  were  novel,  from 
the  Caucasian  standpoint.  His  superstition  was  the 
strongest  feature  of  his  depraved  mind.  The  negro  has 
an  instinctive  dread  of  dead  bodies,  but  a  dead  and  buried 
cadaver  is  to  him  a  horror. 

In  this  instance,  however,  Dick's  superstition  made 
his  sacrilege  possible;  for  while  he  believed  firmly  in  the 
reappearance  and  power  of  departed  spirits,  he  believed 
equally  in  the  powers  of  the  voodoo  to  control  or  bafHe 
them.  Before  undertaking  his  commission,  he  went  to 
one  of  these  voodoo  "doctors,"  who  had  befriended  him 
in  more  than  one  peril,  and  by  the  gift  of  a  fat  'possum 
secured  a  charm  to  protect  him. 

The  dark  hour  came,  and  at  midnight  to  the  little 
clump  of  trees  came  also  Slippery  Dick.  His  first  act 
was  to  bore  a  hole  with  an  auger  in  the  cedar,  insert  the 
voodoo  charm  and  plug  the  hole  firmly.  This  chained 
the  spirit  of  the  dead.  Then  with  a  spade  and  working 
rapidly,  he  threw  the  mound  aside  and  began  to  toss  out 
the  earth  from  above  the  coffin.  In  half  an  hour  his 


THE    FACE    OF   THE    BODY-SNATCHER.  207 

spade  laid  the  wooden  case  bare.  Some  difficulty 
was  experienced  in  removing  the  screws,  but  down  in 
that  cavity,  the  danger  from  using  matches  was  reduced 
to  a  minimum,  and  by  the  aid  of  these  he  soon  loosened 
the  lid  and  removed  it.  To  lift  this  out,  and  take  off  the 
metal  top  of  the  burial  case,  was  the  work  of  but  a  few 
minutes  longer,  and  the  remains  of  poor  Rita  were  ex 
posed  to  view. 

In  less  than  an  hour  after  his  arrival  Slippery  Dick 
had  executed  his  commission  and  was  filling  up  the  grave. 
With  the  utmost  care  he  pressed  down  the  earth  and 
drew  up  the  loosened  soil. 

There  had  been  a  bunch  of  faded  flowers  upon  the 
mound;  he  restored  these  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  shoul 
dered  his  spade  and  auger  and  took  his  departure,  glad 
to  leave  the  grewsome  spot. 

But  a  dramatic  pantomime  had  been  enacted  near  him 
which  he  never  saw.  While  he  was  engaged  in  marking 
the  head  of  the  lifeless  body,  the  slender  form  of  a  man 
appeared  above  him  and  shrank  back  in  horror  at  the 
discovery.  This  man  turned  and  picked  up  the  heavy 
spade  and  swung  it  in  air.  If  it  had  descended  the  negro 
would  have  been  brained.  But  thought  is  a  monarch! 
Slowly  the  arm  descended,  the  spade  was  laid  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  form  a  moment  before  animated  with  an 
overwhelming  passion  stood  silent  and  motionless  behind 
the  cedar. 

When  the  negro  withdrew,  this  man  followed,  gliding 
from  cover  to  cover,  or  following  boldly  in  the  open,  but 
at  all  times  with  a  tread  as  soft  as  a  panther's.  Down 
they  went,  the  criminal  and  his  shadow,  down  into  the 
suburbs,  then  into  the  streets  and  then  into  the  heart  of 
the  city.  Near  the  office  of  Amos  Royson  the  man  in 
front  uttered  a  peculiar  whistle  and  passed  on.  At  the 
next  corner  under  the  electric  lamp  he  turned  and  found 
himself  confronted  by  a  slender  man,  whose  face  shone 
white  under  the  ghastly  light  of  the  lamp,  whose  hair 
hung  upon  his  shoulders,  and  whose  eyes  were  distended 
with  excitement.  Uttering  a  cry  of  fright,  the  negro 
sprang  from  the  sidewalk  into  the  gutter,  but  the  other 
passed  on  without  turning  except  to  cross  the  street, 


208  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

where  in  a  friendly  shadow  he  stopped.  And  as  he  stood 
there  the  negro  retraced  his  steps  and  paused  at  the  door 
of  the  lawyer's  office.  A  dimly  outlined  form  was  at  the 
window  above.  They  had  no  more  than  time  to  ex 
change  a  word  when  the  negro  went  on  and  the  street 
was  bare,  except  that  a  square  away  a  heavy-footed  police 
man  was  approaching. 

The  man  in  the  shadow  leaned  his  head  against  a  tree 
and  thought.  In  his  brain,  standing  out  as  distinct  as 
if  cut  from  black  marble,  was  the  face  of  the  man  he  had 
followed. 

Gerald  possessed  the  reasoning  faculty  to  an  eminent 
degree,  but  it  had  been  trained  altogether  upon  abstract 
propositions.  The  small  affairs  of  life  were  strange  and 
remote  to  him,  and  the  passions  that  animate  the  human 
breast  were  forces  and  agencies  beyond  his  knowledge 
and  calculations. 

Annie  Montjoy,  with  the  facts  in  his  possession,  would 
have  reached  a  correct  conclusion  as  to  their  meaning 
instantly.  He  could  not  handle  them.  His  mind  was 
absolutely  free  of  suspicion.  He  had  wandered  to  the 
little  graveyard,  as  he  had  before  when  sleepless  and 
harassed,  and  discovered  that  some  one  was  disfiguring 
the  body  of  his  lifelong  friend.  To  seize  the  spade  and 
wreak  vengeance  upon  the  intruder  was  his  first  impulse, 
but  at  the  moment  that  it  should  have  fallen  he  saw  that 
the  head  of  the  woman  was  being  carefully  replaced  in 
position  and  the  clothing  arranged.  He  paused  in  won 
der.  The  habitual  opium-eater  develops  generally  a  cun 
ning  that  is  incomprehensible  to  the  normal  mind,  and 
curiosity  now  controlled  Gerald.  The  moment  for  action 
had  passed.  He  withdrew  behind  the  tree  to  witness 
the  conclusion  of  the  drama. 

His  following  the  retreating  figure  was  but  the  con 
tinuance  of  his  new  mood.  He  would  see  the  affair  out 
and  behold  the  face  of  the  man.  Succeeding  in  this  he 
went  home,  revolving  in  mind  the  strange  experience  he 
had  gained. 

But  the  excitement  would  not  pass  away  from  him, 
and  in  the  solitude  of  his  studio,  with  marvelous  skill  he 
drew  in  charcoal  the  scene  as  it  shone  in  memory — the 


THE    FACE    OF   THE    BODY-SNATCHER.  209 

man  in  the  grave,  the  sad,  dead  face  of  the  woman, 
shrinking  into  dissolution,  and  then  its  every  detail  per 
fect,  upon  a  separate  sheet  the  face  of  the  man  under  the 
lamp.  The  memories  no  longer  haunted  him.  They  were 
transferred  to  paper. 

Then  Gerald  underwent  the  common  struggle  of  his 
existence;  he  lay  down  and  tossed  upon  his  pillow;  he 
arose  and  read  and  returned  again.  At  last  came  the 
surrender,  opium  and — oblivion. 

Standing  by  the  easel  next  morning,  Virdow  said  to 
Edward:  "The  brain  cannot  survive  this  many  years. 
When  dreams  of  memories  such  as  these,  vivid  enough 
to  be  remembered  and  drawn,  come  upon  it,  when  the 
waking  mind  holds  them  vivid,  it  is  in  a  critical  condi 
tion."  He  looked  sadly  upon  the  sleeper  and  felt  the 
white  wrist  that  overlay  the  counterpane.  The  flesh  was 
cold,  the  pulse  slow  and  feeble.  "Vitality  small,"  he  said. 
"It  will  be  sudden  when  it  comes;  sleep  will  simply  ex 
tend  into  eternity." 

Edward's  mind  reverted  to  the  old  general.  What  was 
his  own  duty?  He  would  decide.  It  might  be  that  he 
would  return  no  more,  and  if  he  did  not,  and  Gerald  was 
left,  he  should  have  a  protector. 

Virdow  had  been  silent  and  thoughtful.  Now  he 
turned  with  sudden  decision. 

"My  experiments  will  probably  end  with  the  next,"  he 
said.  "The  truth  is,  I  am  so  thoroughly  convinced  that 
the  cultivation  of  this  singular  power  which  Gerald  pos 
sesses  is  destructive  of  the  nervous  system  I  cannot  go 
on  with  them.  In  some  way  the  young  man  has  wound 
himself  about  me.  I  will  care  for  him  as  I  would  a  son. 
He  is  all  gold."  The  old  man  passed  out  abruptly, 
ashamed  of  the  feeling  which  shook  his  voice. 

But  Edward  sat  upon  the  bed  and  taking  the  white 
hand  in  his  own,  smoothed  it  gently,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  thought.  What  did  it  all  mean?  And  how  would 
it  end?  The  sleeper  stirred  slightly.  "Mother,"  he  said, 
and  a  childish  smile  dwelt  for  a  moment  upon  his  lips. 
Edward  replaced  the  hand  upon  the  counterpane  and 
withdrew. 

14 


210  ,    SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  PAST. 

When  Col.  Montjoy  rode  over  to  Gen.  Evan's,  a  few 
mornings  after  the  operation  upon  his  wife's  eyes,  it  was 
with  but  ill-defined  notions  of  what  he  would  say  or 
what  would  be  the  result  of  the  interview.  Circum 
stances  had  placed  him  in  a  strange  and  unpleasant  posi 
tion. 

Col.  Montjoy  felt  that  the  Paris  trip  could  not  be  well 
avoided.  He  realized  that  the  chances  of  accomplishing 
any  real  good  for  his  wife  were  very  small,  but  Dr.  Camp 
bell  had  distinctly  favored  it,  and  the  hesitancy  had  evi 
dently  only  been  on  account  of  the  cost. 

But  could  he  accept  the  generous  offer  made  by  Mor 
gan?  That  was  the  embarrassing  question.  He  was  not 
mentally  blind ;  he  felt  assured  that  the  real  question  for 
him  to  decide  then  was  what  he  should  answer  when  a 
demand  for  the  hand  of  his  daughter  was  made.  For  in 
accepting  the  loan  and  escort  of  Edward  Morgan,  he 
accepted  him.  Could  he  do  this? 

So  far  as  the  rumors  about  the  young  man  were  con 
cerned,  he  never  entertained  them  seriously.  He  re 
garded  them  only  as  a  desperate  political  move,  and  so 
did  the  public  generally.  But  a  shadow  ought  not  to 
hang  over  the  life  of  his  daughter. 

The  old  general  was  at  home  and  partially  read  his 
visitor's  predicament  in  his  face  as  he  approached  the 
veranda. 

"Come  in,  Norton,"  he  said  without  moving  from  his 
great  rocker;  "what  is  troubling  you?"  And  he  laughed 
maliciously.  "But  by  the  way,"  he  added,  "  how  is  the 
madam  to-day?  Mary  told  me  yesterday  she  was  getting 
along  finely." 

"Well,  we  can't  tell,  Evan,"  said  his  visitor,  drawing 
his  chair  next  to  the  rail ;  "we  can't  tell.  In  fact,  nothing 
will  be  known  until  the  bandages  are  removed.  I  oame 
off  without  my  tobacco — "  He  was  holding  his  pipe. 
The  general  passed  him  his  box. 


THE    GRAVE    IN    THE    PAST.  211 

"Oh,  well,  she  can't  but  come  through  all  right; 
Campbell  is  never  mistaken." 

'That  is  true,  and  that  is  what  troubles  me.  Campbell 
predicts  a  return  of  the  trouble  and  thinks  in  the  near 
future  her  only  chance  for  vision  will  lie  in  the  eye  which 
has  been  blind  for  several  years.  He  is  willing  to  admit 
that  Moreau  in  Paris  is  better  authority  and  would  be 
glad  for  Caroline  to  see  him  and  have  his  opinion." 

"Ah,  indeed!"  It  was  expressive.  The  colonel  knew 
that  Evan  comprehended  the  situation,  if  not  the  whole 
of  it.  If  there  had  been  any  doubt,  it  would  have  been 
dispelled.  "A  great  expense,  Norton,  in  these  days,  but 
it  must  be  attended  to."  Col.  Mont  joy  ran  his  hand 
through  his  hair  and  passed  it  over  his  brow  nervously. 

"The  trouble  is,  Evan,  the  matter  has  been  attended 
to,  and  too  easily.  Edward  Morgan  was  present  during 
the  operation  and  has  offered  to  lend  me  all  the  money 
necessary  for  the  trip  with  or  without  security  and  with 
or  without  interest."  The  general  shook  with  silent 
laughter  and  succeeded  in  getting  enough  smoke  down 
his  throat  to  induce  a  disguising  cough. 

"That  is  the  trouble,  Norton,  that  hasn't  afflicted  us 
old  fellows  much  of  late — extra  ease  in  money  matters. 
Edward  is  rich  and  will  not  be  in  any  way  embarrassed 
by  a  small  matter  like  this.  I  think  you  will  do  well  to 
make  it  a  business  transaction  and  accept." 

"You  do  not  understand.  I  have  noticed  marked  atten 
tions  to  Mary  on  the  part  of  the  young  man,  and  Mary," 
he  said,  sadly,  "is,  I  am  afraid,  interested  in  him." 

"That  is  different,"  said  the  general,  with  resolute  grav 
ity.  "Very  different.  Before  you  decide  on  accepting 
this  offer,  you  feel  that  you  must  decide  on  the  young 
man  himself,  I  see.  What  do  you  think?" 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  think  intelligently,  I  am  afraid, 
upon  that  point.  What  do  you  think,  Evan?  Mary  is 
about  as  much  your  property  as  mine." 

"I  think,"  said  the  general,  throwing  off  his  disguise, 
"that  in  Edward  Morgan  she  will  get  the  only  man  I 
ever  saw  to  whom  I  would  be  willing  to  give  her  up.  He 
is  as  straight  and  as  brave  as  any  man  that  ever  fol 
lowed  me  into  battle."  Mont  joy  was  silent  awhile. 


212  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  value  your  opinion 
more  than  any  man's  and  I  do  not  wish  to  express  or  to 
intimate  a  doubt  of  Mr.  Morgan,  who,  I  see,  has  impressed 
you.  I  believe  the  letter  of  Royson's  was  infamous  and 
untrue  in  every  respect,  but  it  has  been  published — and 
it  is  my  daughter.  Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
hasn't  he  come  to  me  and  given  me  something  to  go 
upon?" 

"It  has  occurred  to  me,"  said  the  general,  dryly,  "that 
he  will  do  so  when  he  comes  for  Mary.  In  the  meantime, 
a  man  isn't  called  upon  to  travel  with  a  family  tree  under 
his  arm  and  show  it  to  every  one  who  questions  him. 
Morgan  is  a  gentleman,  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.  If 
he  is  not,  I  do  not  know  the  breed. 

"So  far  as  the  charge  of  Royson  is  concerned,"  con 
tinued  the  general,  "let  me  calm  your  mind  on  that  point. 
I  have  never  entered  upon  this  matter  with  you  because 
the  mistakes  of  a  man's  kindred  are  things  he  has  no 
right  to  gossip  about,  even  among  friends.  The  woman, 
Rita  Morgan,  has  always  been  free;  she  was  given  her 
freedom  in  infancy  by  John  Morgan's  father.  Her  moth 
er's  history  is  an  unfortunate  one.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  she  was  sent  out  from  Virginia  with  John  Morgan's 
mother,  who  was,  as  you  know,  a  blood  relative  of  mine ; 
and  I  know  that  this  woman  was  sent  away  with  an 
object.  She  looked  confoundedly  like  some  of  the  fam 
ily.  Well,  John  Morgan's  father  was  wild;  you  can 
guess  the  result. 

"Rita  lived  in  her  own  house,  and  when  her  husband 
died  John  took  her  to  his  home.  He  told  me  once  in 
so  many  words  that  his  father  left  instructions  outside  his 
will  to  that  effect,  and  that  Rita's  claims  upon  the  old 
man,  as  far  as  blood  was  concerned,  were  about  the  same 
as  his.  You  see  from  this  that  the  Royson  story  is  an 
absurdity.  I  knew  it  when  I  went  in  and  vouched  for 
our  young  friend,  and  I  would  have  proved  it  to  Thomas 
the  night  he  called,  but  Rita  dropped  dead  that  day." 

Montjoy  drew  a  long  breath." 

"You  astonish  me,"  he  said,  "and  relieve  me  greatly. 
I  had  never  heard  this.  I  did  not  really  doubt,  but  you 
have  cleared  up  all  possibility  of  error." 


THE    GRAVE    IN    THE    PAST.  213 

"Nor  has  any  other  man  heard  the  story.  My  conver 
sation  with  John  Morgan  grew  out  of  his  offer  to  buy  of 
me  Alec,  a  very  handsome  mulatto  man  I  owned,  to 
whom  Rita  had  taken  a  fancy.  He  wanted  to  buy  him 
and  free  him,  but  I  had  never  bought  or  sold  a  slave, 
and  could  not  bring  myself  to  accept  money  for  Alec.  I 
freed  him  myself.  John  was  not  willing  for  her  to 
marry  a  slave.  They  were  married  and  he  died  in  less  than 
a  year.  That  is  Rita's  history.  When  Alec  died  Rita 
went  to  John  Morgan  and  kept  house  for  him. 

"When  it  was  that  Gerald  came  in  I  do  not  know," 
pursued  the  general  musingly.  "The  boy  was  nearly 
grown  before  I  heard  of  him.  He  and  Edward  are  chil 
dren  of  distant  relatives,  I  am  told.  John  never  saw  the 
latter  at  all,  probably,  but  educated  him  and,  rinding  Ger 
ald  incapacitated,  very  wisely  left  his  property  to  the 
other,  with  Gerald  in  his  charge. 

"No,  I  have  taken  the  greatest  fancy  to  these  two 
young  fellows,  although  I  only  have  known  one  a  few 
weeks  and  the  other  by  sight  and  reputation."  He  paused 
a  moment,  as  though  his  careless  tones  had  desecrated  a 
sacred  scene;  the  face  of  the  sleeper  rose  to  his  mind. 
"But  they  are  game  and  thoroughbreds.  Accept  the 
proposition  and  shut  your  eyes  to  the  future.  It  will  all 
work  out  rightly."  Montjoy  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"I  will  accept  it,"  he  said,  "but  only  because  it  means 
a  chance  for  Caroline  which  otherwise  she  would  not  have. 
Of  course  you  know  that  Mary  is  going  with  her,  and 
Morgan  is  to  be  their  escort?" 

The  general  uttered  a  prolonged  whistle  and  then 
laughed.  "Well,  confound  the  little  darling,  to  think  she 
should  come  over  here  and  tell  me  all  the  arrangements 
and  leave  herself  out;  Montjoy,  that  is  the  only  one  of 
your  family  born  without  grit;  tell  her  so.  She  is  afraid 
of  one  old  man's  tongue." 

"Here  she  comes,  with  Morgan,"  said  Montjoy,  smil 
ing.  "Tell  her  yourself." 

Edward's  buggy  was  approaching  rapidly  and  the  flush 
ed  and  happy  face  of  the  girl  could  be  seen  within. 

"Plotting  against  me,"  she  called  out,  as  she  descended, 
"and  I  dare  you  to  own  it."  The  general  said : 


214  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  was  about  telling  your  father  what 
a  brave  little  woman  you  are.  Come  in,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he 
added,  seeing  from  her  blushes  that  she  understood  him. 

"Mr.  Morgan  was  coming  over  to  see  the  general," 
said  Mary,  "and  I  came  with  him  to  ride  back  with  papa." 

"Thery"  said  the  colonel,  "we  will  start  right  away." 
And,  despite  the  protests  of  all  the  others,  he  presently 
got  Mary  into  the  buggy  and  carried  her  off.  "You  will 
stop  as  you  come  by,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  called  out.  "I 
will  be  glad  to  see  you  on  a  matter  of  business." 

The  buggy  was  yet  in  sight  when  Edward  turned  to  his 
old  friend  and  said : 

"Gen.  Evan,  I  have  come  to  make  a  statement  to  you, 
based  upon  long  reflection  and  a  sense  of  justice.  I  am 
about  to  leave  the  state  for  France,  and  may  never  return. 
There  are  matters  connected  with  my  family  which  I  feel 
you  should  know,  and  I  prefer  to  speak  rather  than  write 
them."  He  paused  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  general 
looking  straight  ahead  and  recalling  the  conversation  just 
had  with  Col.  Montjoy.  "If  I  seem  to  trespass  on  forbid 
den  grounds  or  stir  unpleasant  memories,  I  trust  you  will 
hear  me  through  before  condemning  me.  Many  years 
ago  you  lost  a  daughter " 

"Go  on,"  said  the  general  as  Edward  paused  and  looked 
doubtfully  toward  him. 

"She  was  to  have  married  my  uncle,  I  am  informed,  but 
she  did  not.  On  the  contrary,  she  married  a  foreigner — 
her  music  teacher.  Is  this  not  true?" 

"Go  on." 

"She  went  abroad,  but  unknown  to  you  she  came 
back  and  her  child  was  born." 

"Ah."  The  sound  that  came  from  the  old  man's  lips 
was  almost  a  gasp.  For  the  first  time  since  the  recital  was 
begun  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  companion. 

"At  this  birth,  which  too*k  place  probably  at  Ilexhurst, 
possibly  in  the  house  of  Rita  Morgan,  whose  death  you 
know  of,  occurred  the  birth  of  Rita's  child  also.  Your 
daughter  disappeared.  Rita  was  delirious,  and  when  she 
recovered  could  not  be  convinced  that  this  child  was  not 
her  own ;  and  she  thought  him  her  son  until  the  day  of  her 
death." 


THE    GRAVE    IN    THE    PAST.  215 

"Where  is  this  child?"  Why  was  I  not  informed?"  The 
old  general's  voice  was  hoarse  and  his  words  scarcely 
audible.  Edward,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  replied  : 

"At  Ilexhurst!  His  name,  as  we  know  it,  is  Gerald 
Morgan." 

Evan,  who  had  half-risen,  sunk  back  in  his  chair. 

"And  this  is  your  belief,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"That  is  the  fact,  as  the  weight  of  evidence  declares. 
The  woman  in  health  did  not  claim  Gerald  for  her  son. 
In  the  moment  of  her  death  she  cried  out:  They  lied!' 
This  is  what  you  heard  in  the  yard  and  I  repeated  it  at 
that  time.  I  was,  as  you  know,  laboring  under  great 
excitement.  There  is  a  picture  of  your  daughter  at  Ilex- 
hurst  and  the  resemblance  is  strong.  You  yourself  were 
struck  with  the  family  resemblance. 

"I  felt  it  my  duty  to  speak,  even  at  the  risk  of  appearing 
to  trespass  upon  your  best  feelings.  You  were  my  friend 
when  I  needed  friends,  and  had  I  concealed  this  I  would 
have  been  ungrateful."  Edward  rose,  but  the  general, 
without  looking  up,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Morgan.  I  thank  you.  You  could  not 
have  done  less.  But  give  me  time  to  realize  what  this 
means.  If  you  are  correct,  I  have  a  grandson  at  Ilex- 
hurst" — Edward  bowed  slightly — "whom  my  daughter 
abandoned  to  the  care  of  a  servant."  Again  Morgan 
bowed,  but  by  the  faintest  motion  of  his  head. 

"I  did  not  say  abandoned,"  he  corrected. 

"It  cannot  be  true,"  said  the  old  man;  "it  cannot  be 
true.  She  was  a  good  girl  and  even  infatuation  would 
not  have  changed  her  character.  She  would  have  come 
back  to  me." 

"If  she  could,"  said  Edward.  He  told  him  the  story  of 
the  unfinished  manuscript  and  the  picture  drawn  by  Ger 
ald.  He  was  determined  to  tell  him  all,  except  as  related 
to  himself.  That  was  his  own  and  Yirdow's  secret.  "If 
that  story  is  true,  she  may  not  have  been  able  to  get  to 
you;  and  then  the  war  came  on;  you  must  know  all  before 
you  can  judge."  The  old  soldier  was  silent. 

He  got  up  with  apparent  difficulty  and  said  formally: 
"Mr.  Morgan,  I  will  be  glad  to  have  you  join  me  in  a  glass 
of  wine.  I  am  not  as  vigorous  as  I  may  appear,  and  this 


216  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

is  my  time  o'  day.  Come  in."  Edward  noticed  that,  as 
he  followed,  the  general's  form  had  lost  something  of  its 
martial  air. 

No  words  were  exchanged  over  the  little  southern  cer 
emony.  The  general  merely  lifted  his  glass  slightly  and 
bowed. 

The  room  was  cool  and  dark.    He  motioned  Edward 
to  a  rocker  and  sunk  into  his  leather-covered  easy-chair. 
There  was  a  minute's  silence  broken  by  the  elder  man. 
"What  is  your  belief,  Mr.  Morgan,  as  to  Gerald?" 

"The  facts  as  stated  are  all " 

"Nevertheless,  as  man  to  man — your  belief." 
"Then,  in  my  opinion,  the  evidence  points  to  Gerald  as 
the  child  of  this  woman  Rita.  I  am  sure  also  that  it  is 
his  own  belief.  The  only  disturbing  evidence  is  the  like 
ness,  but  Virdow  says  that  the  children  of  servants  very 
frequently  bear  likeness  to  a  mistress.  It  is  a  delicate 
question,  but  all  of  our  ancestors  were  not  immaculate. 
Is  there  anything  in  the  ancestry  of  Rita  Morgan — is 
there  any  reason  why  her  child  should  bear  a  likeness  to 

The  general  lifted  his  hand  in  warning.  But  he  said: 
"What  became  of  the  other  child?"  The  question  did  not 
disturb  or  surprise  the  young  man.  He  expected  that  it 
would  be  asked.  It  was  natural.  Yet,  prepared  as  he 
was,  his  voice  was  unsteady  when  he  replied: 

"That  I  do  not  know." 

"You  do  not  know!"  The  general's  tone  of  voice  was 
peculiar.  Did  he  doubt? 

"I  had  two  objects  in  view  when  I  brought  up  this  sub 
ject,"  said  Edward,  when  the  silence  grew  embarrassing; 
"one  was  to  acquaint  you  with  the  possibilities  out  at  II- 
exhurst,  and  to  ask  your  good  offices  for  Gerald  in  the 
event  my  absence  is  prolonged  or  any  necessity  for  assist 
ance  should  arise.  The  other  is  to  find  the  second  child 
if  it  is  living  and  determine  Gerald's  status ;  and,  with  this 
as  my  main  object,  I  venture  to  ask  you  if,  since  her  dis 
appearance,  you  have  ever  heard  of  Marion  Evan?" 

"God  help  me,"  said  Evan,  brokenly;  "yes.  But  it  was 
too  soon;  too  soon;  I  could  not  forgive  her." 

"And  since  then?"  The  old  man  moved  his  hand  slowly 
and  let  it  fall. 


THE    PLEDGE    THAT    WAS    GIVEN.  217 

"Silence — oblivion." 

"Can  you  give  me  the  name  of  her  husband?"  Without 
reply  the  veteran  went  to  the  secretary  and  took  from  a 
pigeonhole  a  well-worn  letter. 

"No  eye  but  mine  has  ever  read  these  lines,"  he  said, 
simply.  "I  do  not  fear  to  trust  them  to  you!  Read!  I 
cannot  now!" 

Edward's  hand  trembled  as  he  received  the  papers.  If 
Rita  Morgan  spoke  the  truth  he  was  about  to  look  upon 
lines  traced  by  his  mother's  hand.  It  was  like  a  message 
from  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE  PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN. 

Edward  opened  the  letter  with  deep  emotion.  The 
handwriting  was  small  and  unformed,  the  writing  of  a 
schoolgirl.  It  read : 

"Jan  3,  1 8 — .  My  Darling  Papa:  When  you  read  this 
I  will  be  far  away  upon  the  ocean  and  separated  from  you 
by  circumstances  compared  with  which  leagues  are  but 
trifles.  You  probably  know  them  by  telegram  before 
now,  but  I  cannot  leave  you  and  my  native  land  without 
a  farewell.  Papa,  I  am  now  the  wife  of  an  honorable,  lov 
ing  man,  and  happy  as  I  could  be  while  remembering  you 
and  your  loneliness.  Why  I  have  done  this,  why  I  have 
taken  this  step  without  coming  to  you  first  and  letting  you 
decide,  I  cannot  tell,  nor  do  I  know.  I  only  know  that 
I  love  my  husband  as  I  have  never  loved  before ;  that  I 
have  his  whole  affection;  that  he  wanted  me  to  go  with 
him  blindly,  and  that  I  have  obeyed.  That  is  all.  There 
is  no  ingratitude  in  my  heart,  no  lessening  of  affection  for 
you ;  you  still  are  to  me  the  one  man  in  my  old  world ;  but 
my  husband  had  come  in  and  made  a  new  world  of  it  all. 
and  I  am  his.  You  will  blame  me,  I  am  afraid,  and  per 
haps  disown  me.  If  so,  God  is  merciful  to  women  who 
suffer  for  those  they  love.  I  would  lay  down  my  life  for 


218  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

Gaspard;  I  have  laid  down  everything  dear  to  life.  We 
go  to  his  childhood's  home  in  Silesia,  where  with  the 
money  he  has  saved  and  with  his  divine  art,  we  hope  to 
be  happy  and  face  the  world  without  fear.  Oh,  papa,  if 
you  could  forgive  me;  if  you  could  remember  your  own 
love  for  that  beautiful  'mamma  of  whom  you  never  tired 
telling,  and  who,  I  am  sure,  is  near  me  now ;  if  you  could 
remember  and  forgive  me,  the  world  would  hold  nothing 
that  I  would  exchange  a  thought  for.  Gaspard  is  noble 
and  manly.  You  would  admire  him  and  he  would  adore 
you,  as  do  I,  your  only  child.  Papa,  you  will  write  to 
me;  a  father  can  never  forsake  his  child.  If  I  am  wrong, 
you  cannot  forsake  me ;  if  I  am  right,  you  cannot.  There 
is  no  arrangement  in  all  God's  providence  for  such  a  con 
tingency,  and  Christ  did  not  turn  even  from  the  woman 
whom  others  would  stone.  Can  you  turn  from  me,  when 
if  I  have  erred  it  is  through  the  divine  instinct  that  God 
has  given  ime?  No!  You  cannot,  you  will  not!  If  you 
could,  you  would  not  have  been  the  noble;  patient,  brave 
man  whom  all  men  love.  Write  at  once  and  forgive  and 
bless  your  child.  Marion." 

On  a  separate  slip,  pinned  to  the  letter,  was : 

"My  address  will  be  Mrs.  Gaspard  Levigne,  Breslau,  Si 
lesia.  If  we  change  soon,  I  will  write  to  you.  God  bless 
and  care  for  you.  M." 

Edward  gently  replaced  the  faded  letter  upon  the  table ; 
his  eyes  were  wet  and  his  voice  changed  and  unnatural. 

"You  did  not  write?'' 

The  general  shook  his  head. 

"You  did  not  write?"  Edward  repeated  the  question; 
this  time  his  voice  almost  agonized  in  the  weight  of  emo 
tion.  Again  the  old  general  shook  his  head,  fearing  to 
trust  his  voice.  The  young  man  gazed  upon  him  long 
and  curiously  and  was  silent. 

"I  wrote  five  years  later,"  said  Evan,  presently.  "It 
was  the  best  I  could  do.  You  cannot  judge  the  ante 
bellum  southern  planter  by  him  of  to-day.  I  was  a  king  in 
those  times!  I  had  ambition.  I  looked  to  the  future  of 


THE  PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN.  219 

my  child  and  my  family!  All  was  lost;  all  perished  in  the 
act  of  a  foolish  girl,  infatuated  with  a  music  master.  I  can 
forgive  now,  but  over  me  have  rolled  waves  enough  in 
thirty  years  to  wear  away  stone.  The  war  came  on;  I 
carried  that  letter  from  Manassas  to  Appomattox  and  then 
I  wrote.  I  set  inquiries  afoot  through  consuls  abroad. 
No  voice  has  ever  risen  from  the  silence.  My  child  is 
dead." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Edward,  gently;  "perhaps  not.  If 
there  is  any  genius  in  European  detective  bureaus  that 
money  can  command,  we  will  know — we  will  know." 

"If  she  lived  she  would  have  written.  I  cannot  get 
round  that.  I  know  my  child.  It  was  the  trueness  of  her 
heart  that  led  her  off.  It  could  not  remain  silent  nearly 
thirty  years." 

"Unless  silenced  by  circumstances  over  which  she  had 
no  control."  The  old  man  searched  for  a  hidden  mean 
ing  in  the  word. 

"I  have  been  thinking  much  during  my  stay  in  this 
country,"  continued  Edward,  "and  every  side  of  this  mat 
ter  has  presented  itself  to  me.  Your  daughter  had  one 
firm,  unchanging  friend — my  uncle,  John  Morgan.  He 
has  kept  her  secret — perhaps  her  child.  Is  it  not  possible 
that  he  has  known  of  her  existence  somewhere;  that  she 
has  been  all  along  informed  of  the  condition  and  welfare 
of  the  child — and  of  you?"  Evan  did  not  reply;  he  was 
intently  studying  the  young  man. 

"John  offered  to  find  her  a  year  after  she  was  gone. 
He  came  and  pleaded  for  her,  but  I  gave  him  conditions 
and  he  came  no  more." 

"It  is  not  only  possible  that  she  lives,"  said  Edward, 
"but  probable.  And  it  is  certain  that  if  John  Morgan 
knew  of  her  existence  and  then  that  she  had  passed  away, 
that  all  pledges  would  have  been  suspended  in  the  pres 
ence  of  a  father's  right  to  know  that  his  child  was  dead. 
I  go  to  unravel  the  mystery.  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  will 
succeed,  for  now,  for  the  first  time,  I  have  a  starting  point. 
I  have  name  and  address."  He  took  down  the  informa 
tion  in  his  memorandum  book. 

Edward  prepared  to  take  his  departure,  when  Evan, 
throwing  off  his  mood,  stood  before  him  thoughtful  and 
distressed. 


220  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"Say  it,"  said  Edward,  bravely,  reading  a  change  in  the 
frank  face. 

"One  moment,  and  I  will  bid  you  farewell  and  god 
speed."  He  laid  his  hand  upon  Edward's  shoulder  and 
fixed  a  penetrating  gaze  upon  him.  "Young  man,  my  ai- 
fairs  can  wait,  but  yours  cannot.  I  have  no  questions  to 
ask  of  yourself;  you  came  among  us  and  earned  our 
gratitude.  In  time  of  trouble  I  stood  by  you.  It  was 
upon  my  vouching  personally  for  your  gentility  that  your 
challenge  was  accepted.  We  went  upon  the  field  togeth 
er;  your  cause  became  mine.  Now  this;  I  have  yet  a 
daughter,  the  young  woman  whom  you  love — not  a  word 
now — she  is  the  pride  and  idol  of  two  old  men.  She 
is  well  disposed  toward  you,  and  you  are  on  the  point 
of  going  upon  a  journey  in  her  company  under  circum 
stances  that  place  her  somewhat  at  a  disadvantage.  I 
charge  you  that  it  is  not  honorable  to  take  advantage  of 
this  to  win  from  her  a  declaration  or  a  promise  of  any 
kind.  Man  to  man,  is  it  not  true?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Edward,  turning  pale,  but  meeting  his 
gaze  fearlessly.  "It  is  so  true  that  I  may  tell  you  now  that 
from  my  lips  no  word  of  love  has  ever  passed  to  her; 
that  if  ever  I  do  speak  to  her  upon  that  subject  it  will  be 
while  she  is  here  among  her  own  people  and  free  from  in 
fluences  that  would  bias  her  decision  unfairly."  The 
hands  of  the  two  men  met  impulsively.  A  new  light  shone 
in  the  face  of  the  old  soldier. 

"I  vouched  for  you,  and  if  I  erred  then  there  is  no 
more  faith  to  be  put  in  manhood,  for  if  you  be  not  a  true 
man  I  never  have  seen  one.  Go  and  do  your  best  for 
Gerald — and  for  me.  I  must  reflect  upon  these  matters 
— I  must  reflect!  As  yet  their  full  import  has  failed  me. 
You  must  send  me  the  manuscript." 

Deeply  impressed  and  touched,  Edward  withdrew 
The  task  was  finished.  It  had  been  a  delicate  and  trying 
one  for  him. 

At  the  hall  Edward  went  with  Mary  into  the  darkened 
room  and  took  the  little  mother's  hand  in  his  and  sat 
beside  her  to  tell  of  the  proposed  journey.  He  pictured 
vividly  the  scenes  to  be  enjoyed  and  life  in  the  gay  capi 
tal,  and  all  as  a  certainty  for  her.  She  did  not  doubt;  Dr. 


THE  PLEDGE  THAT  WAS  GIVEN.  221 

Campbell  had  promised  sight;  it  would  return.  But  this 
journey,  the  expense,  they  could  not  afford  it. 

But  Mary  came  to  the  rescue  there;  her  father  had 
told  her  he  was  entirely  able  to  bear  the  expense,  and  she 
was  satisfied.  This,  however,  did  not  deceive  the  mother, 
who  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the  family  finances.  She 
knitted  away  in  discreet  silence,  biding  her  time. 

The  business  to  which  Col.  Montjoy  had  referred  was 
soon  finished.  He  formally  accepted  the  very  opportune 
offer  and  wished  to  know  when  they  should  meet  in  the 
city  to  arrange  papers.  To  this  Edward  objected,  sug 
gesting  that  he  would  keep  an  accurate  account  of  ex 
penses  incurred  and  arrange  papers  upon  his  return;  and 
to  this,  the  only  reasonable  arrangement  possible,  Col. 
Montjoy  acceded. 

One  more  incident  closed  the  day.  Edward  had  nearly 
reached  the  city,  when  he  came  upon  a  buggy  by  the 
roadside,  drawn  up  in  the  shade  of  a  tree.  His  own  ani 
mal,  somewhat  jaded,  was  leisurely  walking.  Their  ap 
proach  was  practically  noiseless,  and  he  was  alongside 
the  vehicle  before  either  of  the  two  occupants  looked  up. 
He  saw  them  both  start  violently  and  the  face  of  the  man 
flush  quickly,  a  scar  upon  the  nose  becoming  at  once 
crimson.  They  were  Royson  and  his  cousin. 

Greatly  pained  and  embarrassed,  Edward  was  at  a  loss 
how  to  act,  but  unconsciously  he  lifted  his  hat,  with  cere 
monious  politeness.  Royson  did  not  respond,  but  Annie, 
with  more  presence  of  mind,  smiled  sweetly  and  bowed. 
This  surprised  him.  She  had  studiously  avoided  meeting 
him  at  the  hall. 

The  message  of  Mary,  "Royson  is  your  enemy,"  flashed 
upon  him.  He  had  felt  intuitively  the  enmity  of  the  wo 
man.  Why  this  clandestine  interview  and  to  what  did  it 
tend?  He  knew  in  after  days. 

Arriving  at  home  he  found  Virdow  writing  in  the 
library  and  forbore  to  disturb  him.  Gerald  was  slumber 
ing  in  the  glass-room,  his  deep  breathing  betraying  the 
cause.  Edward  went  to  the  little  room  upstairs  to  secure 
the  manuscript  and  prepare  it  for  sending  to  Gen.  Evan. 
Opening  the  desk  he  was  surprised  to  see  that  the  docu 
ment  was  not  where  he  placed  it.  A  search  developed 


222  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

it  under  all  the  fragmentary  manuscript,  and  he  was  about 
to  inclose  it  in  atn  envelope  when  he  noticed  that  the 
pages  were  reversed.  The  last  reader  had  not  slipped 
the  pages  one  under  another  in  handling,  but  had  placed 
them  one  on  another,  probably  upon  the  desk,  thus  bring 
ing  the  last  page  on  top. 

Edward  remembered  at  that  moment  that  in  reading 
the  manuscript  he  had  carefully  replaced  each  page  in  its 
proper  position  and  had  left  the  package  on  top  of  all 
others.  Who  could  have  disturbed  them?  Not  Virdow, 
and  there  was  none  else  but  Gerald! 

He  laid  aside  the  package  and  reflected.  Of  what  use 
could  this  unexplained  manuscript  be  to  Gerald?  None 
that  he  could  imagine;  and  yet  only  Gerald  could  have 
moved  it.  Greatly  annoyed,  he  restored  the  leaves  and 
placed  them  in  an  envelope. 

He  was  still  thinking  of  the  singular  discovery  he  had 
made,  and  idly  glancing  over  the  other  fragments,  when 
from  one  of  them  fell  a  newspaper  clipping.  He  would 
not  in  all  probability  have  read  it  through,  but  the  name 
"Gaspard,"  so  recently  impressed  upon  his  mind,  caught 
his  eye.  The  clipping  was  printed  in  French  and  was 
headed  "From  our  Vienna  correspondent."  Translated, 
it  read  as  follows: 

"To-day  began  the  trial  of  Leon  Gaspard  for  the  mur 
der  of  Otto  Schwartz  in  this  city  on  the  i8th  ult.  The 
case  attracts  considerable  attention,  because  Of  the  fact 
that  Gaspard  has  been  for  a  week  playing  first  violin  in 
the  orchestra  of  the  Imperial  theater,  where  he  has  won 
many  admirers  and  because  of  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  the  case.  Schwartz  was  a  stranger  and  came  to  this 
city  only  upon  the  day  of  his  death.  It  seems  that  Gas 
pard,  so  it  is  charged,  some  years  previously  had  deserted 
a  sister  of  Schwartz  after  a  mock  marriage,  but  this  he 
denies.  The  men  met  in  a  cafe  and  -a  scuffle  ensued,  dur 
ing  which  Schwartz  was  stabbed  to  the  heart  and  instantly 
killed.  Gaspard  claims  that  he  had  been  repeatedly 
threatened  by  letter,  and  that  Schwartz  came  to  Vienna 
to  kill  him,  and  that  he  (Schwartz)  struck  the  first  blow. 
He  had  upon  his  face  a  slight  cut,  inflicted,  he  claims,  by 
a  seal  ring  worn  by  Schwartz.  Bystanders  did  not  see 


"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"          223 

the  blow,  and  Schwartz  had  no  weapons  upon  his  body. 
Gaspard  declares  that  he  saw  a  knife  in  the  dead  man's 
hand  and  that  it  was  picked  up  and  concealed  by  a 
stranger  who  accompanied  him  into  the  cafe.  Unless  he 
can  produce  the  threatening  letters,  and  find  witnesses  to 
prove  the  knife  incident,  the  trial  will  go  hard  with  him." 
Another  clew !  And  the  husband  of  Marion  Evan  was 
a  murderer!  Who  sent  that  clipping  to  John  Morgan? 
Probably  a  detective  bureau.  Edward  folded  it  sadly, 
and  gave  it  place  by  the  memoranda  he  had  written  in 
his  notebook. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"WHICH   OF   THE  TWO   WAS  MY   MOTHER?" 

The  sleeper  lay  tranquilly  forgetful  of  the  morning 
hours  redolent  of  perfumes  and  vocal  with  the  songs  of 
birds.  The  sunlight  was  gone,  a  deep-gray  cloud  having 
crept  up  to  shadow  the  scene.  All  was  still  in  the  glass- 
room.  Virdow  shook  his  head. 

"This,"  he  said,  "strange,  as  it  may  seem,  is  his  real  life. 
Waking  brings  the  dreams.  We  will  not  disturb  him." 

Edward  would  have  returned  his  violin  to  its  case,  but 
as  he  sat  looking  upon  the  face  of  the  sleeper  and  revolv 
ing  in  mind  the  complications  which  had  enslaved  him, 
there  came  upon  the  roof  of  glass  the  unheralded  fall  of 
the  rain.  As  it  rose  and  fell  in  fine  cadences  under  the 
fitful  discharge  of  moisture  from  the  uneven  cloud  drift 
ing  past,  a  note  wild  but  familiar  caught  his  ear ;  it  was  the 
note  of  the  waterfall.  Unconsciously  he  lifted  his  bow, 
and  blending  with  that  strange  minor  chord,  he  filled  the 
room  with  low,  sweet  melody. 

And  there  as  the  song  grew  into  rapture  from  its  sad 
ness  under  the  spell  of  a  new-found  hope,  under  the  mem 
ory  of  that  last  scene,  when  the  rainbow  overhung  the  wa 
ters  and  the  face  of  the  girl  had  become  radiant  with  the 
thought  she  expressed,  Gerald  arose  from  his  couch  and 
stood  before  the  easel.  All  the  care  lines  were  gone  from 


224  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

his  face.  For  the  first  time  in  the  knowledge  of  the  two 
men  he  stood  a  cool,  rational  being.  The  strains  ran  on. 
The  artist  drew,  lingering  over  a  touch  of  beauty,  a  shade 
of  expression,  a  wave  of  fine  hair  upon  the  brow.  Then 
he  stood  silent  and  gazed  upon  his  work.  It  was  finished. 
The  song  of  the  violin  trembled — died  away. 

He  did  not  for  the  moment  note  his  companions;  he 
was  looking  upward  thoughtfully.  The  sun  had  burst 
open  the  clouds  and  was  filling  the  outer  world  with  yel 
low  light,  through  the  water-steeped  air.  Far  away, 
arching  the  mellow  depths  of  a  cloud  abyss,  its  colors  re 
peated  upon  the  wet  grass  around  him,  was  a  rainbow. 
Then  he  saw  that  Virdow  and  Edward  were  watching 
him.  The  spell  was  broken.  He  smiled  a  little  and  beck 
oned  to  Edward. 

"Here  is  a  new  face,"  he  said.  "It  is  the  first  time  it 
has  come  to  me.  It  is  a  face  that  rests  me."  Edward 
approached  and  gazed  upon  the  face  of  Mary!  Speech 
less  with  the  rush  of  feeling  that  came  over  him,  he  turned 
and  left  the  room. 

To  Virdow  it  meant  nothing  except  a  fine  ideal,  but, 
impressed  with  the  manner  of  the  musician,  he  followed 
to  the  great  hall.  The  girl  of  the  picture  stood  in  the 
doorway.  Before  he  had  time  to  speak,  he  saw  the  mar 
tial  figure  of  Evan  overshadow  hers  and  heard  the  strong, 
manly  voice  asking  for  Edward. 

Edward  came  forward.  Confused  by  his  recent  expe 
rience,  and  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  original  of  the 
picture,  he  with  difficulty  managed  to  welcome  his  guests 
and  introduce  his  friend. 

"I  thought  best  to  come,"  said  Evan  when  Virdow, 
with  easy  courtesy,  was  engaging  the  attention  of  the 
lady.  "I  have  passed  a  sleepless  night.  Where  can  we 
speak  privately?"  Edward  motioned  to  the  stairway,  but 
hesitated. 

"Never  mind  Mary,"  said  the  general,  divining  his 
embarrassment.  "I  took  her  away  from  the  colonel  on 
the  road;  she  and  the  professor  will  take  care  of  them 
selves."  She  heard  the  remark  and  smiled,  replying 
gayly: 

"But  don't  stay  too  long.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  weary 
your  friend." 


"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"          225 

Virdow  made  his  courtliest  bow. 

"Impossible,"  he  said.  "I  have  been  an  untiring  ad 
mirer  of  the  beautiful  since  childhood." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Evan.  "You  will  do!"  Virdow  bowed 
again. 

"I  would  be  glad  to  have  you  answer  a  question,"  he 
said,  rather  abruptly,  gazing  earnestly  into  her  eyes.  She 
was  astonished,  but  managed  to  reply  assuringly.  "It  is 
this:  Have  you  ever  met  Gerald  Morgan?" 

"Never.  I  have  heard  so  much  of  him  lately,  I  would 
be  glad  to  see  him." 

"Has  he  ever  seen  you?" 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of " 

"Certainly  not  face  to  face — long  enough  for  him  to 
remember  your  every  feature — your  expression?" 

"Why,  no."  The  old  man  looked  troubled  and  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  hall,  his  head  bent  forward.  The 
girl  watched  him  nonplused  and  with  some  little  uneasi 
ness. 

"Pardon  me — pardon  me,"  he  said,  finally,  recalling  the 
situation.  "But  it  is  strange,  strange!" 

"May  I  inquire  what  troubles  you,  sir?"  she  asked, 
timidly. 

"Yes,  certainly,  yes."  He  started,  with  sudden  resolu 
tion,  and  disappeared  for  a  few  moments.  When  he  re 
turned,  he  was  holding  a  large  sheet  of  cardboard.  "It  is 
this,"  he  said.  "How  could  a  man  who  has  never  seen 
you  face  to  face  have  drawn  this  likeness?"  He  held 
Gerald's  picture  before  her.  She  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  surprise. 

"And  did  he  draw  it — did  Mr.  Gerald " 

"In  my  presence." 

"He  has  never  seen  me." 

"Yes,"  said  a  musical  voice;  "as  you  were  then,  I  have 
seen  you."  She  started  with  fright.  Gerald,  with  pallid 
face  and  hair  upon  his  shoulders,  stood  before  her.  "So 
will  I  see  you — forever."  She  drew  nearer  to  Virdow. 

"This,  my  young  friend,  is  Mary."  It  was  all  he  could 
remember.  And  then  to  her:  "This  is  Gerald." 

"Mary,"  he  said,  musingly,  "Mary?  What  a  pretty 
name!  It  suits  you.  None  other  would."  She  had  ex- 
15 


226  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

tended  her  hand  shyly.  He  took  it  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 
It  was  the  first  time  a  girl's  hand  had  rested  in  his.  He 
did  not  release  it;  she  drew  away  at  last.  Something  in 
his  voice  had  touched  her ;  it  was  the  note  of  suffering,  of 
unrest,  which  a  woman  feels  first.  She  knew  something 
of  his  history.  He  had  been  Edward's  friend.  Her  father 
had  pictured  the  scene  wherein  he  had  cornered  and  de 
fied  Royson. 

"I  am  sure  we  shall  be  friends,  Mr.  Gerald.  Mr.  Mor 
gan  is  so  fond  of  you." 

"We  shall  be  more  than  friends,"  he  said,  gently;  "more 
than  friends."  She  misunderstood  him.  Had  he  divined 
her  secret  and  did  Edward  promise  him  that?" 

"Never  less,"  she  said.  He  had  not  removed  his  eyes 
from  her,  and  now  as  she  turned  to  speak  to  Virdow,  he 
came  and  stood  by  her  side,  and  lifting  gently  one  of  her 
brown  curls  gazed  wonderingly  upon  it.  She  was  em 
barrassed,  but  her  good  sense  came  to  the  rescue. 

"See  the  light  upon  it  come  and  go,"  he  said.  "We  call 
it  the  reflected  light;  but  it  is  life  itself  glimmering  there. 
The  eye  holds  the  same  ray." 

"You  have  imagination,"  she  said,  smiling,  "and  it  is 
fortunate.  Here  you  must  be  lonely."  He  shook  his  head. 

"Imagination  is  often  a  curse.  The  world  generally  is 
happy,  I  think,  and  the  happiest  are  those  who  touch  life 
through  the  senses  alone  and  who  do  not  dream.  I  am 
never  alone!  Would  to  God  sometimes  I  were."  A  look 
of  anguish  convulsed  his  face.  She  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  wrist  as  he  stood  silently  struggling  for  self-pos 
session. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  softly;  "I  have  pained  you." 
The  look,  the  touch,  the  tender  voice — which  was  it?  He 
shuddered  and  gazed  upon  the  little  hand  and  then  into 
her  eyes.  Mary  drew  back,  wondering;  she  read  him 
aright.  Love  in  such  natures  is  not  a  growth.  It  is  born 
as  a  flash  of  light.  Yet  she  did  not  realize  the  full  signifi 
cance  of  the  discovery.  Then,  oh,  wonderful  power  of 
nature,  she  turned  upon  him  her  large,  melting  eyes  and 
gave  him  one  swift  message  of  deepest  sympathy.  Again 
he  shuddered  and  the  faintest  crimson  flushed  his  cheeks. 

They  went  with  Virdow  to  see  the  wing-room,  of  which 


"WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"  227 

she  had  heard  so  much,  to  look  into  the  little  cabinets, 
where  he  made  his  photographs,  to  handle  his  weapons, 
view  his  favorite  books  and  all  the  curious  little  surround 
ings  of  his  daily  life;  she  went  with  an  old  man  and  a 
child.  Her  girlish  interest  was  infectious;  Virdow  threw 
off  his  speculations  and  let  himself  drift  with  the  new  day, 
and  Gerald  was  as  a  smiling  boy. 

They  even  ventured  with  unconventional  daring  to 
peep  into  the  glass-room.  Standing  on  the  threshold,  the 
girl  gazed  in  with  surprise  and  delight. 

"How  novel  and  how  simple!"  she  exclaimed;  "and  to 
think  of  having  the  stars  for  friends  all  night!"  He 
laughed  silently  and  nodded  his  head;  here  was  one  who 
understood. 

And  then  her  eyes  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  marble  bust, 
which  Gerald  had  polished  and  cleared  of  its  discolora- 
tions.  She  made  them  bring  it  and  place  it  before  her. 
A  puzzled  look  overspread  her  face  as  she  glanced  from 
Gerald  to  the  marble  and  back  again. 

"Strange,  strange,"  she  said;  "sit  here,  Mr.  Gerald,  sit 
here,  with  your  head  by  this  one,  and  let  me  see."  White 
now  as  the  marble  itself,  but  controlled  by  the  new  power 
that  had  enthralled,  he  obeyed;  the  two  faces  looked  for 
ward  upon  the  girl,  feature  for  feature.  Even  the  pose 
was  the  same. 

"It  was  well  done,"  she  said.  "I  never  saw  a  more  per 
fect  resemblance,  and  yet" — going  to  one  side — "the  pro 
file  is  that  of  Mr.  Edward!"  The  young  man  uttered  no 
sound ;  he  was,  in  the  swift  passing  of  the  one  bright  hour 
of  his  life,  as  the  marble  itself.  But  as  he  remained  a  mo 
ment  under  the  spell  of  despair  that  overrun  him,  Gen. 
Evan  stood  in  the  door.  Only  Mary  caught  the  words  in 
his  sharp,  half-smothered  exclamation  as  he  started  back. 
They  were:  "It  is  true!"  He  came  forward  and,  taking 
up  the  marble,  looked  long  and  tenderly  into  the  face, 
and  bowing  his  head  gave  way  to  his  tears. 

One  by  one  they  withdrew — Virdow,  Mary,  Edward. 
Only  Gerald  remained,  gazing  curiously  into  the  general's 
face  and  thinking.  Then  tenderly  the  old  man  replaced 
the  bust  upon  the  table,  and,  standing  above  his  hearer, 
said  with  infinite  tenderness : 


228  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

"Gerald,  you  do  not  know  me;  if  God  wills  it  you  will 
know  me  some  day!  That  marble  upon  the  table  is  the 
carved  face  of  my  daughter — Marion  Evan." 

"Then  you  are  Gen.  Evan."  The  young  man  spoke  the 
words  coolly  and  without  emotion. 

"Yes.  Nearly  thirty  years  ago  she  left  me — without  a 
word — without  a  farewell  until  too  late,  with  no  human 
being  in  all  the  world  to  love,  none  to  care  for  me." 

"So  Rita  told  me."  The  words  were  little  more  than  a 
whisper. 

"I  did  not  curse  her;  I  disowned  her  and  sought  to 
forget.  I  could  not.  Then  I  began  to  cry  out  for  her  in 
the  night — in  my  loneliness — do  you  know  what  that 
word  means?" 

"Do  I  know?"  The  pathos  in  the  echo  was  beyond  de 
scription. 

"And  then  I  began  a  search  that  ended  only  when  ten 
years  had  buried  all  hopes.  No  tidings,  no  word  after  her 
first  letter  ever  reached  me.  She  is  dead,  I  believe;  but 
recently  some  of  the  mystery  has  been  untangled.  I  begin 
to  know,  to  believe  that  there  has  been  an  awful  error 
somewhere.  She  did  come  back.  Her  child  was  born 
and  Rita  cared  for  it.  As  God  is  my  judge,  I  believe  that 
you  are  that  child !  Tell  me,  do  you  remember,  have  you 
any  knowledge  that  will  help  me  to  unravel  this 
tangled " 

"You  are  simply  mistaken,  general,"  said  the  young 
man,  without  moving  other  than  to  fold  his  arms  and  sink 
back  into  his  chair.  "I  am  not  the  son  of  Marion  Evan." 
Speechless  for  a  moment,  the  general  gazed  upon  his 
companion. 

"I  thought  I  was,"  continued  Gerald;  "I  hoped  I  was. 
My  God!  My  God!  I  tried  to  be!  I  have  exhausted 
almost  life  itself  to  make  the  truth  a  lie,  and  the  lie  a  truth ! 
I  have  struggled  with  this  secret  here  for  twenty  years  or 
more ;  I  have  studied  every  phase  of  life ;  I  well-nigh  broke 
Rita's  heart.  Poor,  honest  Rita! 

"She  told  me  what  they  claimed — she  was  too  honest 
to  conceal  that — and  what  she  believed;  she  was  too  hu 
man  to  conceal  that;  and  then  left  me  to  judge.  The 
woman  they  would  have  me  own  as  my  mother  left  me,  a 


"WHICH  OP  THE  TWO  WAS  MY  MOTHER?"          229 

lonely  babe,  to  the  care  of  strangers ;  to  grow  up  ill-taught, 
unguided,  frail  and  haunted  with  a  sickening  fear.  She 
has  left  me  twenty-seven  years!  Rita  stayed.  If  1  were 
sick,  Rita  was  by  me.  If  I  was  crazed  Rita  was  there  to 
calm.  Sleepless  by  night,  sleepless  by  day,  she  loved  and 
comforted  and  blessed  me."  He  had  risen  in  his  grow 
ing  excitement.  "I  ask  you,  general,  who  have  known 
life  better  than  I,  which  of  the  two  was  my  mother?  Let 
me  answer;  you  will  not.  The  woman  of  thirty  years  ago 
is  nothing  to  me ;  she  was  once.  That  has  passed.  When 
Rita  lay  dead  in  her  coffin  I  kissed  her  lips  at  last  and 
called  her  mother.  I  would  have  killed  myself  afterward 
— life  seemed  useless — but  not  so  now.  It  may  be  a 
terrible  thing  to  be  Rita's  son;  I  suppose  it  is,  but  as  be 
fore  God,  I  thank  Him  that  I  have  come  to  believe  that 
there  are  no  ties  of  blood  between  me  and  the  woman 
who  was  false  to  both  father  and  child,  and  in  all  proba 
bility  deserted  her  husband." 

Gen.  Evan  turned  abruptly  and  rushed  from  the  room. 
Edward  saw  his  face  as  he  passed  out  through  the  hall 
and  did  not  speak.  With  courtly  dignity  he  took  Mary 
to  the  buggy  and  stood  with  bowed  head  until  they  were 
gone.  He  then  returned  to  the  glass-room.  Gerald 
stood  among  the  ruins  of  a  drawing  and  the  fragments  of 
the  marble  bust  lay  on  the  floor.  One  glance  at  this 
scene  and  the  blazing  eyes  of  the  man  was  sufficient 
Evan  had  failed. 

"Tell  them,"  exclaimed  Gerald,  "that  even  the  son  of  a 
slave  is  dishonored,  when  they  seek  to  link  him  to  a  wo 
man  who  abandons  her  child." 

"What  is  it,"  asked  Virdow,  in  a  whisper,  coming  to  Ed 
ward's  side.  Edward  shook  his  head  and  drew  him  from 
the  room. 

"He  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying." 


230  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

UNDER   THE   SPELL. 

The  autumn  days  ran  out  and  in  the  depths  of  the 
southern  woods,  here  and  there,  the  black  gums  and 
sweet  gums  began  to  flame.  And  with  them  came  the 
day  when  the  bandages  were  to  be  removed  from  the  eyes 
of  the  gentle  woman  at  the  hall.  The  family  gathered 
about  the  little  figure  in  the  sitting-room.  Edward  Mor 
gan  with  them,  and  Col.  Montjoy  lowered  the  bandage. 
The  room  had  been  darkened  and  all  light  except  what 
came  through  one  open  shutter  had  been  excluded.  There 
was  a  moment  of  painful  silence ;  Mary  was  tightly  clasp 
ing  her  mother's  hands.  The  invalid  turned  her  face  to 
the  right  and  left,  and  then  to  the  window. 

"Light,"  she  said,  gently.    "I  see!" 

"Thank  God!"  The  words  burst  from  the  old  man's  lips 
and  his  arms  went  around  mother  and  daughter  at  once. 
For  quicker  than  he  the  girl  had  glided  in  between  them 
and  was  clasping  the  beloved  form.  Edward  said  a  few 
words  of  congratulation  and  passed  outside.  The  scene 
was  sacred. 

Then  came  days  of  practice.  The  eyes  so  long  dark 
ened  must  be  accustomed  to  the  light  and  not  strained. 
Upon  that  weak  vision,  little  by  little,  came  back  the 
world,  the  trees  and  flowers,  the  faces  of  husband  and 
daughter  and  friends.  It  was  a  joyful  season  at  the  hall. 

A  little  sadder,  a  little  sterner  than  usual,  but  with  his 
fine  face  flushed  in  sympathetic  feeling,  the  old  general 
came  to  add  his  congratulations.  Now  nothing  remained 
but  to  prepare  for  Paris,  and  all  was  bustle. 

A  few  more  nights  and  then — departure! 

Mary  was  at  the  piano,  playing  the  simple  music  of  the 
south  and  singing  the  songs  which  were  a  part  of  the  air 
she  had  breathed  all  her  life — the  folk  songs  of  the  blacks. 

Col.  Montjoy  had  the  Duchess  on  his  lap  to  hear  "the 
little  boy  in  his  watch  crack  hickory  nuts"  and  the  mo 
notonous  cracking  of  the  nuts  mingling  with  the  melody 
of  the  musician  had  put  both  asleep. 


UNDER  THE  SPELL.  231 

Mary  and  Edward  went  to  the  veranda,  and  to  them 
across  the  field  came  the  measured  tread  of  feet,  the  call 
of  the  fiddler,  and  now  and  then  strains  of  music,  such  as 
the  negro  prefers. 

Edward  proposed  an  excursion  to  witness  the  dance, 
and  the  girl  assented  gladly.  She  was  herself  a  born 
dancer;  one  whose  feet  were  set  to  rhythm  in  infancy. 

They  reached  the  long  house,  a  spacious  one-room  edi 
fice,  with  low  rafters  but  a  broad  expanse  of  floor,  and 
stood  at  the  door.  Couple  after  couple  passed  by  in  the 
grand  promenade,  the  variety  and  incongruities  of  colors 
amusing  Edward  greatly.  Every  girl  in  passing  called 
repeatedly  to  "missy,"  the  name  by  which  Mary  was 
known  on  the  plantation,  and  their  dusky  escorts  bowed 
awkwardly  and  smiled. 

Suddenly  the  lines  separated  and  a  couple  began  to 
dance.  Edward,  who  had  seen  the  dancers  of  most  na 
tions,  was  delighted  with  the  abandon  of  these.  The  man 
pursued  the  girl  through  the  ranks,  she  eluding  him  with 
ease,  as  he  was  purposely  obstructed  by  every  one.  His 
object  was  to  keep  as  near  her  as  possible  for  the  final 
scene.  At  last  she  reappeared  in  the  open  space  and  hesi 
tating  a  moment,  her  dusky  face  wreathed  in  smiles, 
darted  through  the  doorway.  There  was  a  shout  as  her 
escort  followed.  If  he  could  catch  her  before  she  re- 
entered  at  the  opposite  door  she  paid  the  penalty.  Before 
Edward  realized  the  situation  the  girl  was  behind  him. 
He  stepped  the  wrong  way,  there  was  a  collision,  and  ere 
she  could  recover,  her  pursuer  had  her  in  his  arms.  There 
was  a  moment's  struggle;  his  distinct  smack  proved  his 
success,  and  if  it  had  not,  the  resounding  slap  from  the 
broad  hand  of  his  captive  would  have  betrayed  matters. 

On  went  the  dance.  Mary  stood  patting  time  to  the 
music  of  the  violin  in  the  hands  of  old  Morris,  the  pre 
siding  genius  of  the  festival,  who  bent  and  genuflected  to 
suit  the  requirements  of  his  task.  As  the  revel  grew 
wilder,  as  it  always  does  under  the  stimulus  of  a  specta 
tor's  presence,  she  motioned  to  Edward,  and  entering, 
stood  by  the  player. 

"In  all  your  skill,"  she  said,  "you  cannot  equal  this." 
For  reply  the  young  man,  taking  advantage  of  a  pause  in' 


232  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

the  rout,  reached  over  and  took  the  well-worn  instrument 
from  the  hands  of  the  old  man.  There  was  a  buzz  of  in 
terest.  Catching  the  spirit  of  the  scene  he  drew  the  bow 
and  gave  them  the  wild  dance  music  of  the  Hungarians. 
They  responded  enthusiastically  and  the  player  did  not 
fail. 

Then,  when  the  tumult  had  reached  its  climax,  there 
was  a  crash,  and  with  bow  in  air  Edward,  flushed  and  ex 
cited,  stood  gazing  upon  the  crowd.  Then  forty  voices 
shouted: 

"Missy!  Missy!"  On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  they 
cheered  and  clapped  their  hands. 

All  eyes  were  turned  to  Mary.  She  looked  into  the  face 
of  the  player;  his  eyes  challenged  hers  and  she  responded, 
instinctively  the  dusky  figures  shrunk  to  the  wall  and 
alone,  undaunted,  the  slender  girl  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  deserted  floor.  Edward  played  the  gypsy  dance,  in 
creasing  the  time  until  it  was  a  passionate  melody,  and 
Mary  began.  Her  lithe  form  swayed  and  bent  and  glided 
in  perfect  response  to  his  power,  the  little  feet  twinkling 
almost  unseen  upon  the  sandy  boards.  Such  grace,  such 
allurements,  he  had  never  before  dreamed  of.  And  final 
ly,  breathless,  she  stood  one  moment,  her  hand  uplifted, 
the  triumphant  interpreter  of  his  melody.  With  a  mis 
chievous  smile,  she  sprung  from  the  open  door,  her  face 
turned  backward  for  one  instant. 

Releasing  the  instrument  Edward  followed  in  perfect 
forgetfulness  of  self  and  situation.  But  when,  puzzled, 
he  appeared  alone  at  the  opposite  door,  he  heard  her 
laugh  in  the  distance — and  memory  overwhelmed  him 
with  her  tide. 

He  was  pale  and  startled  and  the  company  was  laugh 
ing.  He  cast  a  handful  of  money  among  them  and  in 
the  confusion  that  followed  made  his  escape.  Mary  was 
waiting  demurely  in  the  path. 

"It  was  perfect,"  he  said,  breaking  the  awkward  si 
lence. 

"Any  one  could  dance  to  that  music,"  was  her  reply. 

Silently  they  began  their  return.  An  old  woman  sat  in 
her  cabin  door,  a  fire  of  chunks  making  a  red  spot  in  the 
gloom  behind. 


UNDER  THE  SPELL.  233 

"We  go  to-morrow,  Aunt  Sylla.  Is  it  for  good  or  ill?" 
The  woman  was  old  and  wrinkled.  She  was  the  focus 
of  all  local  superstition;  one  of  the  ante-bellum  voodoos. 
If  her  pewter  spoons  had  been  gold,  her  few  beads  dia 
monds,  she  might  have  left  the  doors  unbarred  without 
danger. 

Mary  had  paused  and  asked  the  question  to  draw  out 
the  odd  character  for  her  friend. 

"In  the  woods  the  clocks  of  heaven  strike  1 1 !  Jeffers, 
who  was  never  born,  speaks  out,"  was  the  strange  reply. 

"In  the  woods,"  said  Mary, thoughtfully,  "the  dew  drips 
tinkling  from  the  leaves;  Jeffers,  the  redbird,  was  never 
born,  but  hatched.  What  does  he  say,  Aunt  Sylla?" 
The  woman  was  trying  to  light  her  pipe.  Absence  of 
tobacco  was  the  main  cause  of  her  failure.  Edward 
crushed  a  cigar  and  handed  it  to  her.  When  she  had 
lighted  it  she  lifted  the  blazing  chunk  and  her  faded  eyes 
looked  steadily  upon  the  young  man. 

"He  says  the  gentleman  will  come  some  day  and  bring 
much  tobacco."  The  girl  laughed,  but  the  darkness  hid 
her  blushes. 

"In  the  meantime,"  said  Edward,  cheerfully,  placing  a 
silver  coin  in  her  hand,  "you  can  tell  your  friend  Jeffers 
that  you  are  supplied." 

The  negro's  prophecy  is  usually  based  on  shrewd 
guesses.  Sylla  grasped  the  coin  with  the  eagerness  of 
a  child  receiving  a  new  doll.  She  pointed  her  ringer  at 
him  and  looked  to  the  girl.  Mary  laughed. 

"Keep  still  a  moment,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said,  "I  must 
rob  you."  She  took  a  strand  or  two  of  his  hair  between 
her  little  ringers  and  plucked  them  out.  Edward  would 
not  have  flinched  had  there  been  fifty.  "Now  something 
you  have  worn — what  can  it  be?  Oh,  a  button."  She 
took  his  penknife  and  cut  from  his  coat  sleeve  one  of  its 
buttons.  "There,  Aunt  Sylla,  if  you  are  not  successful 
with  them  I  shall  never  forgive  you."  The  old  woman 
took  the  hair  and  the  button  and  relapsed  into  silent 
smoking. 

"I  am  a  little  curious  to  know  what  she  is  going  to 
do  with  those  things,"  said  Edward.  Mary  looked  at 
him  shyly. 


234  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

"She  is  going  to  protect  you,"  she  said.  "She  will  mix 
a  little  ground  glass  and  a  drop  of  chicken  blood  with 
them,  and  sew  all  in  a  tiny  bag.  No  negro  alive  or  dead 
would  touch  you  then  for  the  universe,  and  should  you 
touch  one  of  them  with  that  charm  it  would  give  them 
catalepsy.  You  will  get  it  to-morrow." 

"She  is  arming  me  with  a  terrible  power  at  small  cost," 
he  replied,  dryly. 

"Old  Sylla  is  a  prophetess,"  said  the  girl,  "as  well 
as  a  voodoo,  and  there  is  with  us  a  tradition  that  death 
in  the  family  will  follow  her  every  visit  to  the  house. 
It  is  strange,  but  within  our  memory  it  has  proved  true. 
My  infant  brother,  my  only  sister,  mamma's  brother, 
papa's  sister,  an  invalid  northern  cousin  spending  the 
winter  here — all  their  deaths  were  preceded  by  the  ap 
pearance  of  old  Sylla." 

"And  is  her  success  in  prophecy  as  marked?" 

"Yes,  so  far  as  I  know."  She  hesitated  a  moment. 
"Her  prediction  as  to  myself  has  not  had  time  to  mature." 

"And  what  was  the  prediction?" 

"That  some  day  a  stranger  would  carry  me  into  a 
strange  land,"  she  said,  smiling;  "and — break  my  heart." 

They  had  reached  the  gate;  except  where  the  one 
light  burned  in  the  sitting-room  all  was  darkness  and 
silence.  Edward  said  gently,  as  he  stood  holding  open 
the  gate: 

"I  am  a  stranger  and  shortly  I  will  take  you  into  a 
strange  land,  but  may  God  forget  me  if  I  break  your 
heart."  She  did  not  reply,  but  with  face  averted  passed 
in.  The  household  was  asleep.  She  carried  the  lamp  to 
his  door  and  opened  it.  He  took  it  and  then  her  hand. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes;  then, 
gravely  lifting  the  little  hand,  he  kissed  it. 

"May  God  forget  me,"  he  said  again,  "if  I  break  your 
heart."  He  held  the  door  open  until  she  had  passed  down 
the  stairs,  her  flushed  face  never  lifted  again  to  his. 


THE  HIDDEN  HAND.  235 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  HIDDEN  HAND. 

It  matters  little  what  kind  of  seed  is  planted,  it  finds 
its  proper  elements  in  the  soil.  So  with  rumors.  There 
is  never  a  rumor  so  wild,  but  that  it  finds  a  place  for  its 
roots. 

It  soon  reached  the  coroner,  that  zealous  officer  whose 
compensation  is  based  upon  fees,  that  his  exchequer  had 
been  defrauded  by  the  improper  burial  of  a  woman  out 
at  Ilexhurst.  She  had  dropped  dead,  and  there  had  not 
been  a  witness.  An  inquest  was  proper;  was  necessary. 
He  began  an  investigation.  And  then  appeared  in  the 
brevity  columns  of  one  of  the  papers  the  incipient  scandal: 

"It  is  whispered  that  suspicions  of  foul  play  are  enter 
tained  in  connection  with  Rita,  the  housekeeper  of  the  late 
John  Morgan  at  Ilexhurst.  The  coroner  will  investi 
gate." 

And  the  next  day  the  following: 

"Our  vigilant  coroner  has  made  inquiry  into  the  death 
and  burial  of  Rita  Morgan,  and  feels  that  the  circum 
stances  demand  a  disinterment  and  examination  of  the 
body.  So  far  the  rumors  of  foul  play  come  from  negroes 
only.  It  seems  that  Mr.  Edward  Morgan  found  the 
woman  lying  in  his  yard,  and  that  she  died  almost  imme 
diately  after  the  discovery.  It  was  upon  the  night  but 
one  preceding  his  meeting  with  Mr.  Royson  on  the  field 
of  honor,  and  during  his  absence  next  day  the  body  was 
hurriedly  interred.  There  is  little  doubt  that  the  woman 
came  to  her  death  from  natural  causes,  but  it  is  known 
that  she  had  few  if  any  friends  among  her  race,  and  other 
circumstances  attending  her  demise  are  such  that  the 
body  will  be  disinterred  and  examined  for  evidence." 

Even  this  did  not  especially  interest  the  public.  But 
when  next  day  the  morning  papers  came  out  with  triple 


236  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

headlines  the  first  of  which  was  "Murdered,"  followed  by 
a  succinct  account  of  the  disinterment  of  Rita  Morgan, 
as  she  was  called,  with  the  discovery  of  a  cut  on  the  left 
temple  and  a  wound  in  the  back  of  the  head  that  had 
crushed  in  the  skull,  the  public  was  startled.  No  charge 
was  made  against  Edward  Morgan,  no  connection  hinted 
at,  but  it  was  stated  in  the  history  of  the  woman  that 
she  was  the  individual  referred  to  in  Royson's  famous 
letter  on  which  the  duel  had  been  fought,  and  that  she 
died  suddenly  upon  the  day  it  was  published.  The 
paper  said  that  it  was  unfortunate  that  Mr.  Morgan  had 
left  several  days  before  for  Paris,  and  had  sailed  that 
morning  from  New  York. 

Then  the  public  tongue  began  to  wag  and  the  public 
mind  to  wait  impatiently  for  the  inquest. 

The  inquest  was  held  in  due  form.  The  surgeons  des 
ignated  to  examine  the  supposed  wounds  reported  them 
genuine,  the  cut  in  the  temple  trifling,  the  blow  in  the 
back  of  the  head  sufficient  to  have  caused  death. 

A  violent  discussion  ensued  when  the  jury  came  to 
make  up  its  verdict,  but  the  conservative  members  car 
ried  the  day.  A  verdict  of  "death  by  a  blow  upon  the 
head  by  a  weapon  in  the  hands  of  a  person  or  persons 
unknown  to  the  jury"  was  rendered;  the  body  reinterred 
and  the  crowds  of  curiosity  seekers  withdrew  from  Ilex- 
hurst. 

Unfortunately  during  the  era  of  excitement  Gerald 
was  locked  in  his  room,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of 
some  question  of  memory  that  had  come  upon  him,  and 
he  was  not  summoned  as  a  witness,  from  the  fact  that 
in  no  way  had  he  been  mentioned  in  the  case,  except 
by  Gen.  Evan,  who  testified  that  he  was  asleep  when  the 
death  occurred.  The  German  professor  and  Gen.  Evan 
were  witnesses  and  gave  their  testimony  readily. 

Evan  explained  that,  although  present  at  the  finding 
of  the  body,  he  left  immediately  to  meet  a  gentleman 
who  had  called,  and  did  not  return.  When  asked  as  to 
Edward's  actions  he  admitted  that  they  were  excited, 
but  stated  that  other  matters,  naming  them  briefly,  were 
engaging  them  at  the  same  time  and  that  they  were  of  a 
disturbing  nature.  The  woman,  he  said,  had  first  at- 


THE  HIDDEN  HAND.  237 

tracted  Edward's  attention  by  falling  against  the  glass, 
which  she  was  evidently  looking  through,  and  which  she 
broke  in  her  fall.  If  she  was  struck,  it  was  probably  at 
that  moment. 

He  was  positive  in  his  belief  that  at  the  time  the  sound 
of  falling  glass  was  heard  Edward  was  in  the  room,  but 
he  would  not  state  it  under  oath  as  a  fact.  It  was  this 
evidence  that  carried  the  day. 

When  asked  where  was  Edward  Morgan  and  the  rea 
son  for  his  absence,  he  said  that  he  had  gone  as  the 
escort  of  Mrs.  Montjoy  to  Paris,  where  her  eyes  were 
to  be  examined,  and  that  the  trip  had  been  contemplated 
for  several  weeks.  Also  that  he  would  return  in  less 
than  a  month. 

Nevertheless,  the  gravest  of  comments  began  to  be 
heard  upon  the  streets,  and  prophecies  were  plenty  that 
Edward  would  never  return. 

And  into  these  began  to  creep  a  word  now  and  then 
for  Royson.  "He  knew  more  than  he  could  prove,"  "was 
the  victim  of  circumstances,"  "a  bold  fellow,"  etc.,  were 
fragments  of  conversations  connected  with  his  name. 

"We  fought  out  that  issue  once,"  he  said,  briefly,  when 
asked  directly  about  the  character  of  the  woman  Rita, 
"and  it  is  settled  so  far  as  I  am  concerned."  And  the 
public  liked  the  answer. 

No  charge,  however,  had  been  brought  against  Ed 
ward  Morgan;  the  matter  was  simply  one  that  disturbed 
the  public;  it  wanted  his  explanation  and  his  presence. 
But  behind  it  all,  behind  the  hesitancy  which  the  stern, 
open  championship  of  Evan  and  Montjoy  commanded,  lay 
the  proposition  that  of  all  people  in  the  world  only  Edward 
Morgan  could  have  been  benefited  by  the  death  of  the 
woman;  that  he  was  the  only  person  present  and  that 
she  died  a  violent  death.  And  people  would  talk. 

Then  came  a  greater  shock.  A  little  paper,  the  Tell- 
Tale,  published  in  an  adjoining  city  and  deriving  its 
support  from  the  publication  of  scandals  in  which  the 
victim  was  described  without  naming,  was  cried  upon 
the  street.  Copies  were  sold  by  the  hundreds,  then 
thousands.  It  practically  charged  that  Edward  Morgan 
was  the  son  of  Rita  Morgan;  that  upon  rinding  Royson 


238  SONS   AND    FATHERS. 

possessed  of  his  secret  he  first  killed  the  woman  and  then 
tried  to  kill  that  gentleman  in  a  duel  into  which  Morgan 
went  with  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose;  that 
upon  seeing  the  storm  gathering  he  had  fled  the  country, 
under  the  pretense  of  escorting  a  very  estimable  young 
lady  and  her  mother  abroad,  the  latter  going  to  have  her 
eyes  examined  by  a  Parisian  expert,  the  celebrated  Mo- 
reau. 

It  proceeded  further;  the  young  man  had  completely 
hoodwinked  and  deceived  the  family  to  which  these  ladies 
belonged,  and,  it  was  generally  understood,  would  some 
day  become  the  husband  and  son-in-law.  Every  sensa 
tional  feature  that  could  be  imagined  was  brought  out 
— even  Gerald  did  not  escape.  He  was  put  in  as  the 
legitimate  heir  of  John  Morgan;  the  child  of  a  secret 
marriage,  a  non  compos  mentis  whose  property  was 
being  enjoyed  by  the  other. 

The  excitement  in  the  city  reached  white  heat.  Col. 
Montjoy  and  Gen.  Evan  came  out  in  cards  and  denounced 
the  author  of  the  letter  as  an  infamous  liar,  and  made 
efforts  to  bring  the  editor  of  the  sheet  into  court.  He 
could  not  be  found. 

Days  slipped  by,  and  then  came  the  climax!  One  of 
the  sensational  papers  of  New  York  published  a  four- 
column  illustrated  article  headed  "A  Southern  Tragedy," 
which  pretended  to  give  the  history  of  all  the  Morgans 
for  fifty  years  or  more.  In  this  story  the  writer  dis 
played  considerable  literary  ability,  and  the  situations 
were  dramatically  set  forth.  Pictures  of  Ilexhurst  were 
given ;  the  murder  of  a  negro  woman  in  the  night  and  a 
fancy  sketch  of  Edward.  The  crowning  shame  was  a 
picture  of  Mary.  While  this  latter  did  not  bear  much 
resemblance  to  Mary,  it  bore  her  name  in  bold  type. 
No  such  sensation  had  been  known  since  the  race  riots 
of  1874. 

In  reply  to  this  Montjoy  and  Evan  also  telegraphed 
fiery  denunciations  and  demanded  the  author's  name. 
Their  telegrams  were  published,  and  demands  treated 
with  contempt.  Norton  Montjoy,  in  New  York,  had 
himself  interviewed  by  rival  papers,  gave  the  true  history 
of  Morgan  and  denounced  the  story  in  strong  terms. 


THE  HIDDEN  HAND.  239 

He  consulted  lawyers  and  was  informed  that  the  Mont- 
joys  had  no  right  of  action. 

Court  met  and  the  grand  jury  conferred.  Here  was 
evidence  of  murder,  and  here  was  a  direct  published 
charge.  In  vain  Evan  and  Virdow  testified  before  it. 
The  strong  influence  of  the  former  could  not  carry  the 
day.  The  jury  itself  was  political.  It  was  part  of  the 
Swearingen  ring.  When  it  had  completed  its  labors 
and  returned  its  batch  of  true  bills,  it  was  known  in  a 
few  hours  that  Edward  Morgan  had  been  indicted  for 
the  murder  of  Rita  Morgan. 

Grief  and  distress  unspeakable  reigned  in  the  houses 
of  Gen.  Evan  and  Col.  Montjoy,  and  in  his  bachelor 
quarters  that  night  one  man  sat  with  his  face  upon  his 
hands  and  thought  out  all  of  the  details  of  the  sad  catas 
trophe.  An  unspeakable  sorrow  shone  in  his  big  eyes. 
Barksdale  had  been  touched  in  the  tenderest  part  of  his 
life.  Morgan  he  admired  and  respected,  but  the  name 
of  the  woman  he  loved  had  been  bespattered  with  mud. 
With  him  there  rested  no  duty.  Had  the  circumstances 
been  different,  there  would  have  been  a  tragedy  at  the 
expense  of  his  last  dollar — and  he  was  rich. 

At  the  expense  even  of  his  enterprise  and  his  business 
reputation,  he  would  have  found  the  author  of  those  let 
ters  and  have  shot  him  to  death  at  the  door  of  a  church, 
if  necessary.  There  is  one  point  on  which  the  south  has 
suffered  no  change. 

Morgan,  he  felt,  would  do  the  same,  but  now,  alas, 
Morgan  was  indicted  for  another  murder,  and  afterward 
it  would  be  too  late.  Too  late!  He  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  gave  vent  to  a  frightful  malediction;  then  he  grew 
calm  through  sheer  astonishment.  Without  knock  or 
inquiry  his  door  was  thrown  open  and  Gerald  Morgan 
rushed  into  the  room. 

When  Barksdale  had  last  seen  this  man  he  doubted 
his  ability  to  stand  the  nervous  strain  put  upon  him, 
but  here  was  evidence  of  an  excitement  tenfold  greater. 
Gerald  quivered  like  an  overtaxed  engine,  and  deep  in 
the  pale  face  the  blazing  eyes  shone  with  a  horrible  fierce 
ness.  The  cry  he  uttered  as  he  paused  before  Barksdale 
was  so  unearthly  that  he  unconsciously  drew  back.  The 


240  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

young  man  was  unrolling  some  papers.  Upon  them 
were  the  scenes  at  the  grave  as  he  drew  them — the  open 
coffin,  the  shrunken  face  of  the  woman — and  then,  in  all 
its  repulsive  exactness,  the  face  of  the  man  who  had 
turned  upon  the  artist  under  the  electric  light! 

"What  does  it  mean,  my  friend?"  said  Barksdale,  seek 
ing  by  a  forced  calmness  to  reduce  the  almost  irrational 
visitor  to  reason  again. 

"What?"  exclaimed  Gerald;  "don't  you  understand? 
The  man  uncovered  that  coffin ;  he  struck  that  blow  upon 
poor  dead  Rita's  head!  I  saw  him  face  to  face  and  drew 
those  pictures  that  night.  There  is  the  date." 

"You  saw  him?"  Barksdale  could  not  grasp  the  truth 
for  an  instant. 

"I  saw  him!" 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"I  do  not  know;  I  do  not  know!"  A  thrill  ran  through 
the  now  eager  man,  and  he  felt  that  instead  of  calming 
the  excitement  of  his  visitor  he  was  getting  infected 
by  it.  He  sat  down  deliberately. 

"Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Morgan,  and  tell  me  about  it."  But 
Gerald  dropped  the  pictures  and  stood  over  them. 

"There  was  the  grave,"  he  said,  "and  the  man  was 
down  in  it;  I  stood  up  here  and  lifted  a  spade,  but  then 
he  had  struck  and  was  arranging  her  hair.  If  he  had 
struck  her  again  I  would  have  killed  him.  I  wanted  to 
see  what  it  was  about.  I  wanted  to  see  the  man.  He 
fled,  and  then  I  followed.  Downtown  I  saw  him  under 
an  electric  light  and  got  his  face.  He  was  the  man,  the 
infamous,  cowardly  scoundrel  who  struck  poor  Rita  in 
her  coffin;  but  why — why  should  any  one  want  to  strike 
Rita?  I  can't  see.  I  can't  see.  And  then  to  charge 
Edward  with  it!" 

Barksdale's  blood  ran  cold  during  the  recital,  the  scene 
so  vividly  pictured,  the  uncanny  face  before  him.  It  was 
horrible.  But  over  all  came  the  realization  that  some 
hidden  hand  was  deliberately  striking  at  the  life  of  Ed 
ward  Morgan  through  the  grave  of  the  woman.  The 
cowardliness,  the  infamy,  the  cruelty  was  overpowering. 
He  turned  away  his  face. 

But  the  next  instant  he  was  cool.     It  was  a  frail  and 


WITH  THE  WOMAN  THAT  LOVED  HIM.  241 

doubtful  barrier  between  Edward  and  ruin,  this  mind 
unfolding  its  secret.  If  it  failed  there  was  no  other  wit 
ness. 

''What  became  of  the  man,  did  you  say?" 

"I  do  not  know.     I  wanted  his  face;  I  got  it." 

"Where  did  you  last  see  him?" 

"On  the  street."     Barksdale  arose  deliberately. 

"Mr.  Morgan,  how  did  you  come  here?" 

"I  suppose  I  walked.  I  want  you  to  help  me  find  the 
man  who  struck  the  blow." 

"You  are  right,  we  must  find  the  man.  Now,  I  have  a 
request  to  make.  Edward  trusted  to  my  judgment  in 
the  other  affair,  and  it  came  out  right,  did  it  not?" 

"Yes.     That  is  why  I  have  come  to  you." 

"Trust  me  again.  Go  home  now  and  take  that  picture. 
Preserve  it  as  you  would  your  life,  for  on  it  may  hang 
the  life  of  Edward  Morgan.  You  understand?  And  do 
not  open  your  lips  on  this  subject  to  any  one  until  I  see 
you  again." 

Gerald  rolled  up  the  paper  and  turned  away  abruptly. 
Barksdale  followed  him  down  the  steps  and  called  a 
hack. 

"Your  health,"  he  said  to  Gerald,  as  he  gently  forced 
him  into  the  carriage,  "must  not  be  risked.  And  to  the 
driver,  slipping  a  fee  in  his  hand:  "Take  Mr.  Morgan 
to  Ilexhurst.  Remember,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  called  out. 

"I  remember,"  was  the  reply.  "I  never  forget.  Would 
to  God  I  could." 

Barksdale  walked  rapidly  to  the  livery  stable. 


CHAPTER  XL. 
WITH  THE  WOMAN  THAT  LOVED  HIM. 

Edward  Morgan  gave  himself  up  to  the  dream.  The 
flying  train  sped  onward,  out  of  the  pine  forests,  into  the 
hills  and  the  shadow  of  mountains,  into  the  broad  world 
of  life  and  great  cities. 


242  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

They  had  the  car  almost  to  themselves,  for  the  north 
ward  travel  is  small  at  that  season. 

Before  him  was  the  little  woman  of  the  motherly  face 
and  smooth,  soft  hand,  and  behind  her,  lost  in  the  con 
templation  of  the  light  literature  with  which  he  had  sur 
rounded  her,  was  the  girl  about  whom  all  the  tendrils 
of  hungry  life  were  twining.  He  could  see  her  half- 
profile,  the  contour  of  the  smooth  cheek,  the  droop  of 
eyelid,  the  fluff  of  curly  hair  over  her  brow,  and  the 
shapely  little  head.  He  was  content. 

It  was  a  novel  and  suggestive  situation.  And  yet — 
only  a  dream.  No  matter  how  far  he  wandered,  how- 
real  seemed  the  vision,  it  always  ended  there — it  was  but 
a  dream,  a  waking  dream.  He  had  at  last  no  part  in  her 
life;  he  would  never  have. 

And  yet  again,  why  not?  The  world  was  large;  he 
felt  its  largeness  as  they  rushed  from  center  to  center, 
saw  the  teeming  crowds  here,  the  far-stretching  farms 
and  dwellings  there.  The  world  was  large,  and  they 
were  at  best  but  a  man  and  a  woman.  If  she  loved  him 
what  did  it  matter?  It  meant  only  a  prolonged  and  in 
definite  stay  abroad  in  the  land  he  best  knew;  all  its 
pleasures,  its  comforts,  his — and  hers. 

If  only  she  loved  him!  He  lived  over  every  minute 
detail  of  their  short  companionship,  from  the  hour  he 
saw  her,  the  little  madonna,  until  he  kissed  her  hand 
and  promised  unnecessarily  that  he  would  never  break 
her  heart.  A  strange  comfort  followed  this  realization. 
Come  what  might,  humiliation,  disgrace,  separation,  she 
loved  him ! 

His  fixed  gaze  as  he  dreamed  had  its  effect;  she  looked 
up  from  her  pictures  and  back  to  him. 

A  rush  of  emotions  swept  away  his  mood;  he  rose 
almost  angrily;  it  was  a  question  between  him  and  his 
Savior  only.  God  had  made  the  world  and  named  its 
holiest  passion  love,  and  if  theyjoved  blindly,  foolishly, 
fatally,  God,  not  he,  was  to  blame.  He  went  and  sat  by 
her. 

"You  puzzle  me  sometimes,"  she  said.  "You  are  ani 
mated  and  bright  and — well,  charming  often — and  then 


WITH  THE  WOMAN  THAT  LOVED  HIM.  243 

you  seem  to  go  back  into  your  shell  and  hide.  I  am 
afraid  you  are  not  happy,  Mr.  Morgan." 

"Not  happy?  Hardly.  But  then  no  bachelor  can  be 
quite  happy,"  he  added,  returning  her  smile. 

"I  should  think  otherwise,"  she  answered.  "When  I  look 
about  among  my  married  friends  I  sometimes  wonder 
why  men  ever  marry.  They  seem  to  surrender  so  much 
for  so  little.  I  am  afraid  if  I  were  a  bachelor  there  isn't  a 
woman  living  whom  I  would  marry — not  if  she  had  the 
wealth  of  a  Vanderbilt." 

Edward  laughed  outright. 

"If  you  were  a  bachelor,"  he  answered,  "you  would 
not  have  such  thoughts." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  she  said,  trying  to  frown. 

"Because  you  are  not  a  bachelor." 

"Then,"  she  said,  mockingly,  "I  suppose  I  never  will 
— since  I  can't  be  a  bachelor." 

"The  mystery  to  me,"  said  Edward,  "is  why  women 
ever  marry." 

"Because  they  love,"  answered  the  girl.  "There  is  no 
mystery  about  that." 

"But  they  take  on  themselves  so  much  of  care,  anxiety, 
suffering." 

"Love  can  endure  that." 

"And  how  often  it  means — death!" 

"And  that,  too,  love  does  not  consider.  It  would  not 
hesitate  if  it  knew  in  advance." 

"You  speak  for  yourself?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  If  I  loved,  I  am  afraid  I  would  love 
blindly,  recklessly.  It  is  the  way  of  Montjoy  women — 
and  they  say  I  am  all  Montjoy." 

"Would  you  follow  barefooted  and  in  rags  from  city 
to  city  behind  a  man,  drunken  and  besotted,  to  sing  upon 
the  streets  for  a  crust  and  sleep  under  a  hedge,  his 
chances  your  chances,  and  you  with  no  claim  upon  him 
save  that  you  loved  him  once?  I  have  seen  it"  She 
shook  her  head. 

"The  man  I' loved  could  never  sink  so  low.  He  would 
be  a  gentleman,  proud  of  his  name,  of  his  talents,  of  his 
honor.  If  misfortune  came  he  would  starve  under  the 
first  hedge  before  he  would  lead  me  out  to  face  a  scorn- 


244  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

ful  world.  And  if  it  were  misfortune  only  I  would  sing 
for  him — yes,  if  necessary,  beg,  unknown  to  him,  for 
money  to  help  him  in  misfortune.  Only  let  him  keep 
the  manliness  within  him  undimmed  by  act  of  his."  He 
gazed  into  her  glowing  face. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  never  understood  a  true 
woman's  heart  before." 

The  express  rushed  into  new  and  strange  scenes.  There 
were  battlefields  pointed  out  by  the  conductor — mere 
landscapes,  the  names  of  which  only  were  thrilling. 
Manassas  glided  by,  the  birthplace  of  a  great  hope  that 
perished.  How  often  she  had  heard  her  father  and  the 
general  tell  of  that  battle! 

And  then  the  white  shaft  of  the  Washington  monu 
ment,  and  the  capitol  dome  rose  in  the  distance. 

As  they  glided  over  the  long  bridge  across  the  Potomac 
and  touched  the  soil  of  the  capital  city  and  the  street 
lights  went  past,  the  young  woman  viewed  the  scenes 
with  intense  interest.  Washington!  But  for  that  in 
famous  assault  upon  her  father,  through  the  man  who 
had  been  by  her  side,  he  would  have  walked  the  streets 
again,  a  Southern  congressman! 

They  took  rooms  to  give  the  little  mamma  a  good 
night's  rest,  and  then,  with  the  same  unconventional  free 
dom  of  the  hall,  Mary  wandered  out  with  Edward  to 
view  the  avenue.  They  went  and  stood  at  the  foot  of 
that  great  white  pile  which  closes  one  end  of  the  avenue, 
and  were  awed  into  silence  by  its  grandeur. 

She  would  see  grander  sights,  but  never  one  that  would 
impress  her  more.  She  thought  of  her  father  alone, 
away  back  in  Georgia,  at  the  old  home,  sitting  just  then 
upon  the  porch  smoking  his  pipe.  Perhaps  the  Duchess 
was  asleep  in  his  lap,  perhaps  the  general  had  come  over 
to  keep  him  company,  and  if  so  they  were  talking  of 
the  absent  ones.  Edward  saw  her  little  hand  lightly 
laid  upon  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  comprehended. 

Morning!  And  now  the  crowded  train  sweeps  north 
ward  through  the  great  cities  and  opens  up  bits  of  marine 
views.  For  the  first  time  the  girl  sees  a  stately  ship, 
with  wings  unfurled,  "go  down  into  the  seas,"  vanishing 
upon  the  hazy  horizon,  "like  some  strain  of  sweet  melody 


THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SUNG.  245 

silenced  and  made  visible,"  as  Edward  quoted  from  a  far 
away  poet  friend. 

"And  if  you  will  watch  it  intently,"  he  added,  "and  for 
get  yourself  you  will  lose  sight  of  the  ship  and  hear  again 
the  melody."  And  then  came  almost  endless  streets  of 
villages  and  towns,  the  smoke  of  factories,  the  clamor 
and  clangor  of  life  massed  in  a  small  compass,  a  lull 
of  the  motion,  hurrying  crowds  and  the  cheery,  flushed 
face  of  Norton  pressed  to  his  mother's  and  to  hers. 

The  first  stage  of  the  journey  was  over.  Across  the 
river  rose,  in  dizzy  disorder  and  vastness,  New  York. 

The  men  clasped  hands  and  looked  each  other  in  the 
eyes,  Montjoy  smiling,  Morgan  grave.  It  seemed  to  the 
latter  that  the  smile  of  his  friend  meant  nothing;  that 
behind  it  lay  anxiety,  questioning.  He  did  not  waver 
under  the  look,  and  in  a  moment  the  hand  that  held  his 
tightened  again.  Morgan  had  answered.  Half  the  con 
versation  of  life  is  carried  on  without  words.  Morgan 
had  answered,  but  he  could  not  forget  his  friend's  ques 
tioning  gaze.  Nor  could  he  forget  that  his  friend  had  a 
wife. 


CHAPTER  XLL 
THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SUNG. 

The  stay  of  the  party  in  New  York  was  short.  Norton 
was  busy  with  trade  that  could  not  wait.  He  stole  a 
part  of  a  day,  stuffed  the  pocketbooks  of  the  ladies  with 
gold,  showed  them  around  and  then  at  last  they  looked 
from  the  deck  of  a  "greyhound"  and  saw  the  slopes  of 
Staten  island  and  the  highlands  sink  low  upon  the  hori 
zon. 

The  first  night  at  sea!  The  traveler  never  forgets  it. 
Scenes  of  the  past  may  shine  through  it  like  ink  re 
newed  in  the  dimmed  lines  of  a  palimpsest  through  later 
records,  but  this  night  stands  supreme  as  if  it  were  the 
sum  of  all.  For  in  this  night  the  fatherland  behind  and 
the  heart  grown  tender  in  the  realization  of  its  isolation, 


246  SONS    AND    FATHERS. 

come  back  again  the  olden  experiences.  Dreams  that 
have  passed  into  the  seas  of  eternity  meet  it  and  shine 
again.  Old  loves  return  and  fold  their  wings,  and  hopes 
grown  wrinkled  with  disappointment  throw  off  dull 
Time's  imprints  and  are  young  once  more. 

To  the  impressionable  heart  of  the  girl,  the  vastness 
and  the  solemnity  brought  strange  thoughts.  She  stood 
by  the  rail,  silenced,  sad,  but  not  with  the  sadness  that 
oppresses.  By  her  was  the  man  who  through  life's  hid 
den  current  had  brought  her  all  unknowing  into  harmony 
with  the  eternal  echoes  rising  into  her  consciousness. 

At  last  she  came  back  to  life's  facts.  She  found  her 
hand  in  his  again,  and  gently,  without  protest,  disen 
gaged  it.  Her  face  was  white  and  fixed  upon  nothing 
ness. 

"Of  what  are  your  thinking?"  she  asked,  gently.  He 
started  and  drew  his  breath  inward  with  a  gasp. 

"I  do  not  know — of  you,  I  suppose."  And  then,  as 
she  was  silent  and  embarrassed:  'There  is  a  tone  in  the 
ocean,  a  note  I  have  never  heard  before,  and  I  have  list 
ened  on  all  seas.  But  here  is  the  new  song  different 
from  all.  I  could  listen  forever." 

"I  have  read  somewhere,"  she  said,  "that  all  the  sound 
waves  escape  to  the  ocean.  They  jostle  and  push  against 
each  other  where  men  abound,  the  new  crowding  out  the 
old;  but  out  at  sea  there  is  room  for  all.  It  may  be 
that  you  hear  only  as  your  heart  is  attuned." 

He  nodded  his  head,  pleased  greatly. 

"Then  I  have  heard  to-night,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "a 
song  of  a  woman  to  the  man  she  loves." 

"But  you  could  not  have  heard  it  unless  your  heart 
was  attuned  to  love's  melodies.  Have  you  ever  loved  a 
woman,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

He  started  and  his  hand  tightened  upon  the  guard. 

"I  was  a  boy  in  heart  when  I  went  abroad,"  he  said. 
"I  had  never  known  a  woman's  love  and  sympathy.  In 
Switzerland  a  little  girl  gave  me  a  glass  of  goat's  milk 
at  a  cottage  door  in  the  mountains.  She  could  not  have 
been  more  than  12  years  old.  I  had  heard  her  singing 
as  I  approached,  her  voice  marvelous  in  its  power  and 
pathos.  Her  simple  dress  was  artistic,  her  face  frank 


THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SUNG.  247 

and  eyes  confiding.  I  loved  her.  I  painted  her  picture 
and  carried  her  both  in  my  heart  and  my  satchel  for 
three  years.  I  did  not  love  her  and  yet  I  believed  I  did. 
But  I  think  that  I  must  have  loved  at  some  time.  As 
you  say,  I  could  not  have  heard  if  it  were  not  so."  He 
drew  her  away  and  sought  the  cabin.  But  when  he  said 
good-night  he  came  and  walked  the  deck  for  an  hour, 
and  once  he  tossed  his  arms  above  him  and  cried  out 
in  agony:  "I  cannot!  I  cannot!  The  heart  was  not  made 

for  such  a  strain!" 

*     *     * 

Six  times  they  saw  the  sun  rise  over  the  path  ahead, 
ascend  to  the  zenith  and  sink  away,  and  six  times  the 
endless  procession  of  stars  glinted  on  the  myriad  facets 
of  the  sea.  The  hundreds  of  strange  faces  about  them 
grew  familiar,  almost  homelike.  The  ladies  made  ac 
quaintances;  but  Edward  none.  When  they  were  acces 
sible  he  never  left  their  presence,  devoting  himself  with 
tender  solicitude  to  their  service,  reading  to  them,  re 
citing  bits  of  adventure,  explaining  the  phenomena  of 
the  elements,  exhibiting  the  ship  and  writing  in  their 
journals  the  record  for  the  father  at  home.  When  they 
were  gone  he  walked  the  deck,  silent,  moody,  sad;  alone 
in  the  multitude. 

People  had  ceased  to  interest  him.  Once  only  did  he 
break  the  silence;  from  the  ship's  orchestra  he  borrowed 
a  violin,  and  standing  upon  the  deck,  as  at  first,  he  found 
the  love-song  again  and  linked  it  forever  with  his  life.  It 
was  the  ocean's  gift  and  he  kept  it. 

He  thought  a  great  deal,  but  from  the  facts  at  home 
he  turned  resolutely.  They  should  not  mar  the  only 
summer  of  his  heart.  "Not  now,"  he  would  say  to  these 
trooping  memories.  "After  a  while  you  may  come  and 
be  heard." 

But  of  the  future  he  thought  and  dreamed.  He  pic 
tured  a  life  with  the  woman  he  loved,  in  every  detail; 
discounting  its  pleasures,  denying  the  possibility  of  sor 
row.  There  were  times  when  with  her  he  found  himself 
wishing  to  be  alone  that  he  might  review  the  dream  and 
enlarge  it.  It  ceased  to  be  a  dream,  it  became  a  fact, 
he  lived  with  it  and  he  lived  by  it.  It  was  possible  no 


248  SONS    AND   FATHERS. 

longer;  it  was  certain.  Some  day  he  would  begin  it; 
he  would  tell  it  to  her  and  make  it  so  beautiful  she  would 
consent. 

All  this  time  the  elder  lady  thought,  listened  and 
knitted.  She  was  one  of  those  gentle  natures  not  made 
for  contentions,  but  for  soothing.  She  was  never  idle. 
Edward  found  himself  watching  the  busy  needles  as 
they  fought  for  the  endless  thread,  and  marveled.  What 
patience !  What  continuity !  What  endurance ! 

The  needles  of  good  women  preach  as  they  labor.  He 
knew  the  history  of  these.  For  forty  years  they  had 
labored,  those  bits  of  steel  in  the  velvet  fingers.  Hus 
band,  children,  slaves,  all  had  felt  upon  their  feet  the  soft 
summings  of  their  calculations.  One  whole  company  of 
soldiers,  the  gallant  company  her  husband  had  led  into 
confederate  service,  had  threaded  the  Wilderness  in  her 
socks,  and  died  nearly  all  at  Malvern  Hill.  Down  deep 
under  the  soil  of  the  old  mother  state  they  planted  her 
work  from  sight,  and  the  storms  of  winter  removed  its 
imprints  where,  through  worn  and  wasted  leather,  it  had 
touched  virgin  soil  as  the  bleeding  survivors  came  limp 
ing  home.  Forty  years  had  not  stilled  the  thought  on 
which  it  was  based.  It  was  strong  and  resolute  still. 
Some  day  the  needles  would  rust  out  of  sight,  the  hands 
be  folded  in  rest  and  the  thought  would  be  gone.  Ed 
ward  glanced  from  the  woman  to  the  girl. 

"Not  so,"  he  said,  softly ;  "the  thought  will  live.  Other 
hands  trained  under  its  sweet  ministry  will  take  up  the 
broken  threads;  the  needles  will  flash  again.  Woman's 
work  is  never  done,  and  never  will  be  while  love  and  faith 
and  courage  have  lodgment  upon  earth. 

"Did  you  speak,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Possibly.  I  have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  thinking 
aloud.  And  I  was  thinking  of  you;  it  must  have  been 
a  great  privilege  to  call  you  mother,  Mrs.  Montjoy." 
She  smiled  a  little. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"I  have  never  called  any  one  by  that  name,"  ^  he  said, 
slowly,  looking  away.  "I  never  knew  a  mother." 

"That  will  excuse  a  great  many  things  in  a  man's  life," 
she  said,  in  sympathy.  "You  have  no  remembrance, 
then?" 


THE  SONG  THE  OCEAN  SUNG.  249 

"None.  She  died  when  I  was  an  infant,  I  suppose, 
and  I  grew  up,  principally,  in  schools." 

"And  your  father?" 

"He  also — died."  He  was  reckless  for  the  moment. 
"Sometimes  I  think  I  will  ask  you  to  let  me  call  you — 
mother.  It  is  late  to  begin,  but  think  of  a  man's  living 
and  dying  without  once  speaking  the  name  to  a  woman." 

"Call  me  that  if  you  will.  You  are  certainly  all  that  a 
son  could  be  to  me." 

"Mother,"  he  said,  reflectively,  "mother,"  and  then 
looking  toward  Mary  he  saw  that,  though  reading,  her 
face  was  crimson;  "that  gives  me  a  sister,  does  it  not?" 
he  added,  to  relieve  the  situation.  She  glanced  toward 
him,  smiling. 

"As  you  will,  brother  Edward — how  natural." 

"I  like  the  mother  better,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "I 
have  observed  that  brothers  do  not  wear  well.  I  should 
hate  to  see  the  day  when  it  would  not  be  a  pleasure  to 
be  with  you,  Miss  Montjoy."  He  could  not  control  nor 
define  his  mood. 

"Then,"  she  said,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  book,  "let  it 
not  be  brother.  I  would  be  sorry  to  see  you  drift  away 
— we  are  all  your  friends." 

"Friends!"  He  repeated  the  word  contemplatively. 
"That  is  another  word  I  am  not  fond  of.  I  have  seen  so 
many  friends — not  my  own,  but  friends  of  others !  Friends 
steal  your  good  name,  your  opportunities,  your  happi 
ness,  your  time  and  your  salvation.  Oh,  friendship!" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day,  Mr.  Morgan?" 
said  Mary.  "I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  you  in  just  such  a 
frame  of  mind.  What  has  made  you  cynical?" 

"Am  I  cynical?  I  did  not  know  it.  Possibly  I  am 
undergoing  a  metamorphosis.  Such  things  occur  about 
us  every  day.  Have  you  ever  seen  the  locust,  as  he  is 
called,  come  up  out  of  the  earth  and  attach  himself  to  a 
tree  and  hang  there  brooding,  living  an  absolutely  worth 
less  life?  Some  day  a  rent  occurs  down  his  own  back 
and  out  comes  the  green  cicada,  with  iridescent  wings; 
no  longer  a  dull  plodder,  but  now  a  swift  wanderer,  merry 
and  musical.  So  with  the  people  about  you.  Useless 
and  unpicturesque  for  years,  they  some  day  suffer  a 


250  SONS   AND  FATHERS. 

change;  a  piece  of  good  luck,  success  in  business;  any 
of  these  can  furnish  sunlight,  and  the  change  is  born. 
Behold  your  clodhopper  is  a  gay  fellow." 

"But,"  said  the  girl,  laughing,  "the  simile  is  poor;  you 
do  not  see  the  cicada  go  back  from  the  happy  traveler 
stage  and  become  a  cynic." 

"True.  What  does  become  of  him?  Oh,  yes;  along 
comes  the  ichneumon  fly  and  by  a  skillful  blow  on  the 
spine  paralyzes  him  and  then  thrusts  under  his  skin  an 
egg  to  be  warmed  into  life  by  its  departing  heat.  That  is 
the  conclusion;  your  gay  fellow  and  careless  traveler 
gets  an  overwhelming  blow;  an  idea  or  a  fact,  or  a  bit 
of  information  to  brood  upon ;  and  some  day  it  kills  him." 

She  was  silent,  trying  to  read  the  meaning  in  his  words. 
What  idea,  what  fact,  what  overwhelming  blow  were  kill 
ing  him?  Something,  she  was  sure,  had  disturbed  him. 
She  had  felt  it  for  weeks. 

Mrs.  Montjoy  expressed  a  desire  to  go  to  her  state 
room,  and  Edward  accompanied  her.  The  girl  had 
ceased  reading  and  sat  with  her  chin  in  hand,  revolving 
the  matter.  After  he  had  resumed  his  position  she  turned 
to  find  his  gaze  upon  her.  They  walked  to  the  deck; 
the  air  was  cold  and  bracing. 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  so  opposed  to  sisters,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "If  I  were  a  sister  I  would  ask  you  to  share 
your  trouble  with  me." 

"What  trouble?" 

"The  trouble  that  is  changing  the  careless  traveler  to 
a  cynic — is  killing  his  better  self." 

He  ceased  to  speak  in  metaphor.  "There  is  a  trouble," 
he  said,  after  reflection;  "but  one  beyond  your  power  to 
remedy  or  lighten.  Some  day  I  will  tell  it  to  you — but 
not  now." 

"You  do  not  trust  me." 

"I  do  not  trust  myself."  She  was  silent,  looking  away. 
She  said  no  more.  Pale  and  trembling  with  suppressed 
emotion,  he  stood  up.  A  look  of  determination  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  he  faced  her.  At  that  moment  a  faint, 
far  cry  was  heard  and  every  one  in  sight  looked  forward. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  a  passenger,  as  the  captain  passed. 

"The  cliffs  of  England,"  he  said.     Edward  turned  and 


THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE.  251 

walked  away,  leaving  her  leaning  upon  the  rail.     He 
came  back  smoking.     His  mood  had  passed. 

The  excitement  had  begun  at  once.  On  glided  the 
good  ship.  Taller  grew  the  hills,  shipping  began  to  ap 
pear,  and  land  objects  to  take  shape.  And  then  at  last 
the  deep  heart  throbbing  ceased  and  the  glad  voyagers 
poured  forth  upon  the  shore. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE. 

Paris! 

With  emotions  difficult  to  appreciate  Edward  found 
himself  at  home,  for  of  all  places  Paris  meant  that  to 
him.  He  went  at  once  to  his  old  quarters;  a  suite  of 
rooms  in  a  quiet  but  accessible  street,  where  was  com 
bined  something  of  both  city  and  suburban  life.  The 
concierge  almost  overwhelmed  him  with  his  welcome. 

In  obedience  to  his  letters,  everything  had  been 
placed  in  order,  books  and  furniture  dusted,  the  linen 
renewed,  the  curtains  laundered  and  stiffened  anew,  and 
on  the  little  center  table  was  a  vase  of  crimson  roses — 
a  contribution  for  madame  and  mademoiselle. 

His  own,  the  larger  room,  was  surrendered  to  the 
ladies;  the  smaller  he  retained.  There  was  the  little 
parlor  between,  for  common  use.  Outside  was  the 
shady  vista  of  the  street  and  in  the  distance  the  murmur 
of  the  city. 

Mrs.  Montjoy  was  delighted  with  the  arrangement 
and  the  scene.  Mary  absorbed  all  the  surroundings  of 
the  owner's  past  life;  every  picture,  every  book  and  bit 
of  bric-a-brac,  all  were  parts  of  him  and  full  of  interest. 
The  very  room  seemed  imbued  with  his  presence.  Here 
was  his  shaded  student's  lamp,  there  the  small  upright 
piano,  with  its  stack  of  music  and,  in  place  ready  for  the 
player,  an  open  sheet.  It  might  have  been  yesterday 
that  he  arose  from  its  stool,  walked  out  and  closed  the 
door. 


252  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

It  was  a  little  home,  and  when  coming  into  the  parlor 
from  his  toilet,  Edward  saw  her  slender  figure,  he 
paused,  unwilling  to  disturb  the  scene.  His  heart  beat 
faster,  and  then  the  old  depression  returned. 

She  found  him  watching  her,  and  noted  the  troubled 
look  upon  his  face. 

"It  is  all  so  cozy  and  beautiful,"  she  said.  "I  am  so 
glad  that  you  brought  us  here  rather  than  to  a  hotel." 

"And  I,  too,  if  you  are  pleased." 

"Pleased!     It  is  simply  perfect!" 

A  note  lay  upon  the  center  table.  He  noticed  that  it 
was  addressed  to  him,  and,  excusing  himself,  opened  it 
and  read: 

"M.  Morgan.  Benoni,  the  maestro,  is  ill  and  desires 
monsieur.  It  will  be  well  if  monsieur  comes  quickly. 

"Annette." ' 

He  rang  the  bell  hurriedly  and  the  concierge  appeared. 

"This  note,"  said  Edward,  speaking  rapidly  in  French ; 
"has  it  been  long  here?" 

"Since  yesterday.  I  sent  it  back,  and  they  returned  it. 
Monsieur  is  not  disappointed,  I  trust."  Edward  shook 
his  head  and  was  seeking  his  hat  and  gloves. 

"You  recall  my  old  friend,  the  maestro,  who  gave  me 
the  violin,"  he  said,  remembering  Mary.  "The  note  says 
he  is  very  ill.  It  was  sent  yesterday.  Make  my  excuses 
to  your  mother;  I  will  not  stay  long.  If  I  do  not  see 
you  here,  I  will  seek  you  over  yonder  in  the  park,  where 
the  band  may  be  playing  shortly;  and  then  we  will  find 
a  supper." 

Walking  rapidly  to  a  cab  stand  he  selected  one  with  a 
promising  horse,  and  gave  directions.  He  was  carried 
at  a  rapid  rate  into  the  region  of  the  Quartier  Latin  and 
in  a  few  moments  found  the  maestro's  home. 

One  or  two  persons  were  by  him  when  he  entered  the 
room,  and  they  turned  and  looked  curiously.  "Edward !" 
exclaimed  the  old  man,  lifting  his  sightless  eyes  toward 
the  door;  "there  is  but  one  who  steps  like  that!" 

Edward  approached  and  took  his  hand.  The  sick  man 
was  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  wrapped  in  his  faded  dress- 


THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE.  253 

ing-gown.  "My  friends,"  he  continued,  lifting  his  hand 
with  a  slight  gesture  of  dismissal,  "you  have  been  kind 
to  Benoni ;  God  will  reward  you ;  farewell !" 

The  friends,  one  a  woman  of  the  neighborhood,  the 
other  the  wife  of  the  concierge,  came  and  touched  his 
hand,  and,  bowing  to  Edward,  withdrew,  lifting  their 
white  aprons  to  their  faces  as  they  passed  from  the  room. 

"You  are  very  ill,"  said  Edward,  placing  his  hand 
upon  the  old  man's  arm;  "I  have  just  returned  to  Paris 
and  came  at  once." 

"Very  ill,  indeed."  He  leaned  back  his  head  wearily. 
"It  will  soon  be  over." 

"Have  you  no  friends  who  should  know  of  this,  good 
Benoni;  no  relatives?  You  have  been  silent  upon  this 
subject,  and  I  have  never  questioned  you.  I  will  bring 
them  if  you  will  let  me."  Benoni  shook  his  head. 

"Never.  I  am  to  them  already  dead."  A  fit  of  cough 
ing  seized  him,  and  he  became  greatly  exhausted.  Upon 
the  table  was  a  small  bottle  containing  wine,  left  by  one 
of  the  women.  Edward  poured  out  a  draught  and  placed 
it  to  the  bloodless  lips. 

"One  is  my  wife,"  said  the  dying  man,  with  sudden 
energy;  "my  rwn  wife." 

"I  will  answer  that  she  comes;  she  cannot  refuse." 

"Refuse?  No,  indeed!  She  has  been  searching  for  me 
for  a  lifetime.  Many  times  she  has  looked  upon  me 
without  recognition.  She  would  come;  she  has  been 
here — she  has  been  here!" 

"And  did  not  know  you?    Is  it  possible?" 

"She  did  not  know." 

"You  told  her,  though?" 

"No." 

"You  never  told  her — "  There  was  a  pause.  The  sick 
man  said,  gasping: 

"I  am  a  convict!"  A  cry  of  horror  broke  from  the 
lips  of  the  young  man.  The  old  violinist  resented  his 
sudden  start  and  exclamation.  "But  a  convict  innocent. 
I  swear  it  before  my  Maker!"  Edward  was  deeply 
touched. 

"None  can  doubt  that  who  knows  you,  Benoni." 

"He  threatened  my  life ;  he  struck  at  me  with  his  knife ; 


254  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

I  turned  it  on  him,  and  he  fell  dead.  I  did  what  I  could ; 
I  was  stanching  the  wound  when  they  seized  me.  His 
ring  jewel  had  cut  my  face;  but  for  that  I  would  have 
been  executed.  I  had  no  friends,  even  my  name  was  not 
my  own.  I  went  to  prison  and  labor  for  twenty  years." 

He  named  the  length  of  his  sentence  in  a  whisper.  It 
was  a  horror  he  could  never  understand.  He  stretched 
out  his  hand.  "Wine."  Again  Edward  restored  some 
thing  of  the  fleeting  strength. 

"She  came,"  he  said,  "searching  for  me.  I  was  blind 
then;  they  had  been  careless  with  their  blasting — my 
eyes  were  gone,  my  hair  white,  my  face  scarred.  She 
did  not  know  me.  Her  voice  was  divine!  Her  name  has 
been  in  the  mouths  of  all  men.  She  came  and  sang  at 
Christmas,  to  the  prisoners,  the  glorious  hymns  of  her 
church,  and  she  sang  to  me.  It  was  a  song  that  none 
there  knew  but  me — my  song!  Had  she  watched  my 
face,  then,  she  would  have  known;  but  how  could  she 
suspect  me,  the  blind,  the  scarred,  the  gray?  She  passed 
out  forever.  And  I,  harmless,  helpless,  soon  followed — 
pardoned.  I  knew  her  name;  I  made  my  way  to  Paris 
to  be  near  that  voice;  and  the  years  passed;  I  was  poor 
and  blind.  It  cost  money  to  hear  her." 

Trembling  with  emotion,  Edward  whispered:  "Her 
name?"  Benoni  shook  his  head  and  slowly  extended  his 
withered  arms.  The  woolen  wristlets  had  been  removed, 
there  were  the  white  scars,  the  marks  of  the  convict's 
long-worn  irons. 

"I  have  forgiven  her;  I  will  not  bring  her  disgrace." 

"Gambia?"  said  Edward,  unconsciously.  There  was  a 
loud  cry;  the  old  man  half-rose  and  sunk  back,  baffled 
by  his  weakness. 

"Hush!  Hush!"  he  gasped;  "it  is  my  secret;  swear  to 
me  you  will  keep  it;  swear  to  me,  swear!" 

"I  swear  it,  Benoni,  I  swear  it."  The  old  man  seemed 
to  have  fallen  asleep ;  it  was  a  stupor. 

"She  came,"  he  said,  "years  ago  and  offered  me  gold. 
It  was  to  be  the  last  effort  of  her  life.  She  could  not  be 
lieve  but  that  her  husband  was  in  Paris  and  might  be 
found.  She  believed  the  song  would  find  him.  I  had 
been  suggested  to  her  because  my  music  and  figure  were 


THE  DEATH  OF  GASPARD  LEVIGNE.  255 

known  to  all  the  boulevards.    I  was  blind  and  could  never 
know  her.    But  I  knew  her  voice. 

"We  went,  veiled  to  avoid  recognition;  she  stood  by 
me  at  a  certain  place  on  the  boulevard  where  people 
gather  in  the  evening  and  sung.  What  a  song!  The 
streets  were  blocked,  and  men,  I  am  told,  uncovered  be 
fore  the  sacred  purity  of  that  voice,  and  when  all  were 
there  who  could  hear  she  sung  our  song;  while  I,  weep 
ing,  played  the  accompaniment,  ay,  as  no  man  living  or 
dead  could  have  played  it.  Always  in  the  lines — 

"Oceans  may   roll   between 
Thy  home  and  thee." 

— her  voice  gave  way.    They  called  it  art. 

"Well,  I  thought,  one  day  I  will  tell ;  it  was  always  the 
next  day,  but  I  knew,  as  she  sung,  in  her  mind  must  have 
arisen  the  picture  of  that  husband  standing  by  her  side — 
ah,  my  God,  I  could  not,  I  could  not;  blind,  scarred,  a 
felon,  I  could  not;  I  was  dead!  It  was  bitter! 

"And  then  she  came  to  me  and  said:  'Good  Benoni, 
your  heart  is  true  and  tender;  I  thank  you;  I  have  wealth 
and  plenty;  here  is  gold,  take  it  in  memory  of  a  broken 
heart  you  have  soothed.'  I  said: 

'  'The  voice  of  that  woman,  her  song,  are  better  than 
gold.  I  have  them.'  I  went  and  stood  in  the  door  as  she, 
weeping,  passed  out.  She  lifted  her  veil  and  touched  the 
forehead  of  the  old  musician  with  her  lips,  and  then — I 
hardly  knew !  I  was  lying  on  the  floor  when  Annette  came 
to  bring  my  tea." 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  without  motion  after  this  recital. 
Edward  loosened  the  faded  cords  of  his  gown.  The  old 
man  spoke  again  in  a  whisper: 

"Come  closer;  there  is  another  secret.  I  knew  then  that 
I  had  never  before  loved  her.  My  marriage  had  been 
an  outrage  of  heart-faith.  I  mistook  admiration,  sym 
pathy,  memory,  for  love.  I  was  swept  from  my  feet  by  her 
devotion,  but  it  is  true — as  God  is  my  judge,  I  never  loved 
her  until  then — until  her  sad,  ruined  life  spoke  to  me  in 
that  song  on  the  streets  of  Paris."  Edward  still  held  his 
hand. 

"Benoni,"  he  said,  simply,  "there  is  no  guilt  upon  your 


256  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

soul  to  have  deserved  the  convict's  irons.  Believe  me, 
it  is  better  to  send  for  her  and  let  her  come  to  you.  Think 
of  the  long  years  she  has  searched ;  of  the  long  years  of 
uncertainty  that  must  follow.  You  cannot,  you  cannot 
pass  away  without  paying  the  debt;  it  was  your  fault  in 
the  beginning " 

The  old  man  had  gradually  lifted  his  head;  now  he 
bowed  it.  "Then  you  owe  her  the  admission.  Oh,  be 
lieve  me,  you  are  wrong  if  you  think  the  scars  of  misfor 
tune  can  shame  away  love.  You  do  not  know  a  true 
woman's  heart.  You  have  not  much  time,  I  fear;  let  me 
send  for  her."  There  was  no  reply.  He  knelt  and  took 
one  withered  hand  in  his.  "Benoni,  I  plead  for  you  as 
for  her.  There  will  come  a  last  moment — you  will  relent ; 
and  then  it  will  be  too  late." 

"Send!"  It  was  a  whisper.  The  lips  moved  again;  it 
was  an  address.  Upon  a  card  Edward  wrote  hurriedly: 

"The  blind  musician  who  once  played  for  you  is  dy 
ing.  He  has  the  secret  of  your  life.  If  you  would  see 
your  husband  alive  lose  no  minute.  A  Friend." 

He  dashed  from  the  room  and  ran  rapidly  to  a  cab 
stand. 

"Take  this,"  he  said,  "bring  an  answer  in  thirty  minutes, 
and  get  100  francs.  If  the  police  interfere,  say  a  dying 
man  waits  for  his  friend." 

The  driver  lashed  his  horses,  and  was  lashing  them 
as  he  faded  into  the  distance. 

Edward  returned;  he  called  for  hot  water  and  bathed 
the  dying  man's  feet;  he  rubbed  his  limbs  and  poured 
brandy  down  his  throat.  He  laid  his  watch  upon  the 
little  table;  five,  ten,  fifteen,  twenty,  twenty-five — would 
she  never  come?" 

Death  had  already  entered;  he  was  hovering  over  the 
doomed  man. 

The  door  opened ;  a  tall  woman  of  sad  but  noble  coun 
tenance  stepped  in,  thrusting  back  her  veil.  Edward  was 
kneeling  by  Benoni's  side.  Gambia's  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  the  face  of  the  dying  man. 

Edward  passed  out,  leaving  them  alone.  A  name  es 
caped  her. 

"Gaspard." 


THE  DEATH  OP  GASPARD  LEVIGNE.  257 

Slowly,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair,  the  old  man 
arose  and  listened. 

"It  was  a  voice  from  the  past,"  he  said,  clearly.  "Who 
calls  Gaspard  Levigne?" 

"Oh,  God  in  heaven!"  she  moaned,  dropping  to  her 
knees.  "Is  it  true?  What  do  you  know  of  Gaspard  Le 
vigne?" 

"Nothing  that  is  good;  but  I  am  he,  Marie!"  The 
woman  rushed  to  his  side;  she  touched  his  face  and 
smoothed  the  disordered  hair.  She  held  his  hand  after  he 
had  sunk  into  his  chair. 

"Tell  me,  in  God's  name,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  where 
are  the  proofs  of  our  marriage?  Oh,  Gaspard,  for  my 
sake,  for  the  sake  of  your  posterity!  You  are  dying;  do 
not  deny  me!" 

"Ah,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.  "I  did  not  know — there — 
was — another — I  did  not  know.  The  woman — she  wrote 
that  it  died!"  He  rose  again  to  his  feet,  animated  by  a 
thought  that  gave  him  new  strength.  Turning  his  face 
toward  her  in  horror,  he  said: 

"It  is  for  you  that  you  search,  then — not  for  me!" 

He  tore  wildly  at  his  throat  and  dropped  to  the  floor. 
She  caught  his  hand. 

"Speak,  Gaspard,  my  husband,  for  my  sake,  for  the 
sake  of  your  Marie,  who  loved  and  loves  you,  speak!" 
His  lips  moved.  She  placed  her  ear  to  them: 

"Dear  heaven,"  she  cried  in  despair.  "I  cannot  hear 
him!  I  cannot  hear  him!  Gaspard!  Gaspard!  Gas 
pard!  Ah "  The  appeal  ended  in  a  shriek.  She  was 

staring  into  his  glazing  eyes.  Then  over  the  man's  face 
came  a  change.  Peace  settled  there.  The  eyes  closed 
and  he  whispered:  "Freda!" 

Hearing  her  frantic  grief,  Edward  rushed  in  and  now 
stood  looking  down  in  deep  distress  upon  the  scene. 

"He  is  dead,  madame,"  he  said,  simply.  "Let  me  see 
you  to  your  home."  She  arose,  white  and  calm,  by  a 
mighty  effort. 

"What  was  he  to  you?    Who  are  you?"  she  asked. 

"He  was  my  friend  and  master."  He  laid  his  hands 
lovingly  on  the  eyes,  closing  them.  "I  am  Edward  Mor 
gan!"  Her  eyes  never  left  him.  There  was  no  motion 
17 


258  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

of  her  tall  figure;  only  her  hand  upon  the  veil  closed 
tightly  and  her  features  twitched.  They  stood  in  silence 
but  a  moment;  it  was  broken  by  Gambia.  She  had  re 
gained  something  of  the  bearing  of  the  dramatic  soprano. 
With  a  simple  dignity  she  said: 

"Sir,  you  have  witnessed  a  painful  scene.  On  the  honor 
of  a  gentleman  give  me  your  pledge  to  secrecy.  There 
are  tragedies  in  all  lives;  chance  has  laid  bare  to  you  the 
youth  of  Gambia."  He  pointed  downward  to  where  the 
still  form  lay  between  them. 

"Above  the  body  of  your  husband— my  friend — I  swear 
to  you  that  your  secret  is  safe." 

"I  thank  you." 

She  looked  a  moment  upon  the  form  of  the  sleeper, 
and  then  her  eyes  searched  the  face  of  the  young  man. 
"Will  you  leave  me  alone  with  him  a  few  moments?"  He 
bowed  and  again  withdrew  into  the  little  hall. 

When  he  was  gone  she  knelt  above  the  figure  a  long 
time  in  prayer,  and  then,  looking  for  the  last  time  upon 
the  dead  face,  sadly  withdrew.  The  young  man  took  her 
to  the  carriage.  A  policeman  was  guarding  it. 

"The  driver  broke  the  regulation  by  my  orders,"  Ed 
ward  said;  "he  was  bringing  this  lady  to  the  bedside  of  a 
dying  friend.  Here  is  enough  to  pay  his  fine."  He  gave 
a  few  napoleons  to  the  cabman  and  his  card,  on  which 
he  placed  his  address. 

"Adieu,  madame.  I  will  arrange  everything,  and  if 
you  will  attend  the  funeral  I  will  notify  you." 

"I  will  attend,"  said  Gambia;  "I  thank  you.  Adieu." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 
THE  HEART  OP  GAMBIA. 


It  was  a  simple  burial.  Edward  sent  a  carriage  for 
Gambia,  one  for  the  concierge  and  his  wife,  and  in  the 
other  he  brought  Mrs.  Montjoy  and  Mary,  to  whom  he 
had  related  a  part  of  the  history  of  Benoni,  as  he  still 
called  him.  Out  in  Pere  la  Chaise  they  laid  away  the 


THE  HEART  OP  GAMBIA.  259 

body  of  the  old  master,  placed  on  it  their  flowers  and  the 
beautiful  wreath  that  Gambia  brought,  and  were  ready  to 
return. 

As  they  approached  their  carriage,  Edward  introduced 
the  ladies,  to  whom  he  had  already  told  of  Gambia's  ca 
reer. 

They  looked  with  sympathetic  pleasure  upon  the  great 
singer  and  were  touched  by  her  interest  in  and  devotion 
to  the  old  musician,  "whom  she  had  known  in  happier 
days." 

Gambia  studied  their  faces  long  and  thoughtfully  and 
promised  to  call  upon  them.  They  parted  to  meet  again. 

When  Edward  went  to  make  an  engagement  for  Mrs. 
Montjoy  with  Moreau,  the  great  authority  on  the  eye,  he 
was  informed  that  the  eminent  specialist  had  been  called 
to  Russia  for  professional  services  in  the  family  of  the 
czar,  and  would  not  return  before  a  date  then  a  week  off. 
The  ladies  accepted  the  delay  philosophically.  It  would 
give  them  time  to  see  something  of  Paris. 

And  see  it  they  did.  To  Edward  it  was  familiar  in 
every  feature.  He  took  them  to  all  the  art  centers,  the 
historical  points,  the  great  cathedral,  the  environments 
of  Malmaison  and  Versailles,  to  the  promenades,  the  pal 
aces  and  the  theater.  This  last  feature  was  the  delight  of 
both.  For  the  dramatic  art  in  all  its  perfection  both  betray 
ed  a  keen  relish,  and  just  then  Paris  was  at  its  gayest.  They 
were  never  jostled,  harrassed,  nor  disappointed.  They 
were  in  the  hands  of  an  accomplished  cosmopolitan. 

To  Mary  the  scenes  were  full  of  never-ending  delight. 
The  mother  had  breathed  the  same  atmosphere  before, 
but  to  Mary  all  was  novel  and  beautiful. 

Throughout  all  Edward  maintained  the  sad,  quiet  dig- 
nity  peculiar  to  him,  illumined  at  times  by  flashes  of  life 
as  he  saw  and  gloried  in  the  happiness  of  the  girl  at  his 
side. 

Then  came  Gambia!  Mary  had  gone  out  with  Edward, 
for  a  walk,  and  Mrs.  Montjoy  was  knitting  in  the  parlor 
in  silent  reverie  when  a  card  was  brought  in,  and  almost 
immediately  the  sad,  beautiful  face  of  the  singer  appeared 
in  the  door. 

"Do  not  arise,  madame,"  she  said,  quickly,  coming 


260  SONS   AND    FATHERS. 

forward  upon  seeing  the  elderly  lady  beginning  to  put 
aside  her  knitting,  "nor  cease  your  work.  I  ask  that  you 
let  me  forget  we  are  almost  strangers  and  will  sit  here  by 
your  side.  You  have  not  seen  Moreau  yet?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  releasing  the  white  hand 
that  had  clasped  hers;  "he  is  to  return  to-day." 

"Then  he  will  soon  relieve  your  anxiety.  With  Moreau 
everything  is  possible." 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  your  trust  is  not  misplaced;  success 
will  lift  a  great  weight  from  my  family."  Gambia  was  si 
lent,  thinking;  then  she  arose  and,  sinking  upon  the  little 
footstool,  laid  her  arms  upon  the  knees  of  her  hostess, 
and  with  tearful  eyes  raised  to  her  face  she  said : 

"Mrs.  Montjoy,  do  you  not  know  me?  Have  I  indeed 
changed  so  much?" 

The  needles  ceased  to  contend  and  the  work  slipped 
from  the  smooth  little  hands.  A  frightened  look  over 
spread  the  gentle  face. 

"Who  is  it  speaks?  Sometime  I  must  have  known 
that  voice." 

"It  is  Marion  Evan."  The  visitor  bent  her  head  upon 
her  own  arms  and  gave  way  to  her  emotion.  Mrs.  Mont 
joy  had  repeated  the  name  unconsciously  and  was  silent. 
But  presently,  feeling  the  figure  bent  before  her  strug 
gling  in  the  grasp  of  its  emotion,  she  placed  both  hands 
upon  the  shapely  head  and  gently  stroked  its  beautiful 
hair,  now  lined  with  silver. 

"You  have  suffered,"  she  said,  simply.  "Why  did  you 
leave  us?  Why  have  you  been  silent  all  these  years?" 

"For  my  father's  sake.  They  have  thought  me  cold, 
heartless,  abandoned.  I  have  crucified  my  heart  to  save 
his."  She  spoke  with  vehement  passion. 

"Hush,  my  child,"  said  the  elder  lady;  "you  must  calm 
yourself.  Tell  me  all ;  let  me  help  you.  You  used  to  tell 
me  all  your  troubles  and  I  used  to  call  you  daughter  in 
the  old  times.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Ah,  madame,  if  I  did  not  I  would  not  be  here  now. 
Indeed  you  were  always  kind  and  good  to  Marion." 

And  so,  living  over  the  old  days,  they  came  to  learn 
again  each  other's  hearts  and  find  how  little  time  and  the 
incidents  of  life  had  changed  them.  And  sitting  there 


THE  HEART  OF  GAMBIA.  261 

beneath  the  sympathetic  touch  and  eyes  of  her  lifetime 
friend,  Gambia  told  her  story. 

"I  was  not  quite  17,  madame,  you  remember,  when  it 
happened.  How,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  thought  then  I 
must  have  been  born  for  Gaspard  Levigne.  From  the 
moment  I  saw  him,  the  violin  instructor  in  our  institution, 
I  loved  him.  His  voice,  his  music,  his  presence,  without 
effort  of  his,  deprived  me  of  any  resisting-  power;  i  did 
not  seek  to  resist.  I  advanced  in  my  art  until  its  perfec 
tion  charmed  him.  I  had  often  seen  him  watching  me 
with  a  sad  and  pensive  air  and  he  once  told  me  that  my 
face  recalled  a  very  dear  friend,  long  dead.  I  sung  a  solo 
in  a  concert;  he  led  the  orchestra;  I  sung  to  him.  The 
audience  thought  it  was  the  debutante  watching  her  di 
rector,  but  it  was  a  girl  of  17  singing  to  the  only  man  the 
world  held  for  her.  He  heard  and  knew. 

"From  that  day  we  loved;  before,  only  I  loved.  He 
was  more  than  double  my  age,  a  handsome  man,  with  a 
divine  art;  and  I — well,  they  called  me  pretty — made  him 
love  me.  We  met  at  every  opportunity,  and  when  oppor 
tunities  did  not  offer  we  made  them,  those  innocent,  hap 
py  trysts. 

"Love  is  blind  not  only  to  faults  but  to  all  the  world. 
We  were  discovered  and  he  was  blamed.  The  great 
name  of  the  institution  might  be  compromised — its  busi 
ness  suffer.  He  resigned. 

"Then  came  the  terrible  misstep;  he  asked  me  to  go 
with  him  and  I  consented.  We  should  have  gone  home ; 
he  was  afraid  of  the  legal  effects  of  marrying  a  minor,  and 
so  we  went  the  other  way.  Not  stopping  in  New  York 
we  turned  northward,  away  from  the  revengeful  south; 
from  police  surveillance,  and  somewhere  we  were  mar 
ried.  I  heard  them  call  us  man  and  wife,  and  then  I  sank 
again  into  my  dream. 

"It  does  not  seem  possible  that  I  could  not  have  known 
the  name  of  the  place,  but  I  was  no  more  than  a  child 
looking  from  a  car  window  and  taken  out  for  meals  here 
and  there.  I  had  but  one  thought — my  husband. 

"We  went  to  Canada,  then  abroad.  Gaspard  had  saved 
considerable  money;  his  home  was  in  Silesia  and  thither 
we  went;  and  that  long  journey  was  the  happiest  honey 
moon  a  woman  could  know." 


262  SONS    AND  FATHERS. 

"I  spent  mine  in  Europe  wandering  from  point  to  point. 
I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  gently. 

"Ah,  you  do  understand.  We  reached  the  home  and 
then  my  troubles  began.  My  husband,  the  restraints  of 
his  professional  engagement  thrown  off,  fell  a  victim  to 
dissipation  again.  He  had  left  his  country  to  break  up  old 
associations  and  this  habit. 

"His  people  were  high-class  but  poor.  He  was  Count 
Levigne.  Their  pride  was  boundless.  They  disliked 
me  from  the  beginning.  I  had  frustrated  the  plans  of  the 
family,  whose  redemption  was  to  come  from  Gaspard. 
Innocent  though  I  was,  and  soon  demanding  the  tender 
ness,  the  love,  the  gentleness  which  almost  every  woman 
receives  under  like  circumstances,  I  received  only  cold 
ness  and  petty  persecution. 

"Soon  came  want;  not  the  want  of  mere  food,  but  of 
clothing  and  minor  comforts.  And  Gaspard  had  changed 
— he  who  should  have  defended  me  left  me  to  defend 
myself.  One  night  came  the  end.  He  reproached  me — 
he  was  intoxicated — with  having  ruined  his  life  and  his 
prospects."  The  speaker  paused.  With  this  scene  had 
come  an  emotion  she  could  with  difficulty  control;  but, 
calm  at  last,  she  continued  with  dignity: 

"The  daughter  of  Gen.  Albert  Evan  could  not  stand 
that.  I  sold  my  diamonds,  my  mother's  diamonds,  and 
came  away.  I  had  resolved  to  come  back  and  work  for 
a  living  in  my  own  land  until  peace  could  be  made  with 
father.  At  that  time  I  did  not  know  the  trouble.  I  found 
out,  though. 

"Gaspard  came  to  his  senses  then  and  followed  me. 
Madame,  can  you  imagine  the  sorrow  of  that  coming 
back?  But  a  few  months  before  I  had  gone  over  the 
same  route  the  happiest  woman  in  all  the  to  me  beautiful 
world,  and  now  I  was  the  most  miserable;  life  had  lost 
its  beauty! 

"We  met  again — he  had  taken  a  shorter  way,  and, 
guessing  my  limited  knowledge  correctly,  by  watching 
the  shipping  registers  found  me.  But  all  eloquence  could 
not  avail  then;  there  had  been  a  revulsion.  I  no  longer 
loved  him.  He  would  never  reform ;  he  would  live  by  fits 
and  starts  and  he  could  not  support  me.  At  that  time  he 


THE  HEART  OP  GAMBIA.  263 

had  but  one  piece  of  property  in  the  world — a  magnificent 
Stradivarius  violin.  The  sale  of  that  would  have  brought 
many  thousand  francs  to  spend,  but  on  that  one  thing  he 
was  unchanging.  It  had  come  to  him  by  many  generations 
of  musicians.  They  transmitted  to  him  their  divine  art  and 
the  vehicle  of  its  expression.  A  suggestion  of  sale  threw 
him  into  the  most  violent  of  passions,  so  great  was  the 
shock  to  his  artistic  nature  and  family  pride.  If  he  had 
starved  to  death  that  violin  would  have  been  found  by  his 
side. 

"I  believe  it  was  this  heroism  in  his  character  that 
touched  me  at  last;  I  relented.  We  went  to  Paris  and 
Gaspard  secured  employment.  But,  alas,  I  had  not  been 
mistaken.  I  was  soon  penniless  and  practically  abandon 
ed.  I  had  no  longer  the  ability  to  do  what  I  should  have 
done  at  first;  I  could  not  go  home  for  want  of  means." 

"You  should  have  written  to  us." 

"I  would  have  starved  before  I  would  have  asked.  Had 
you  known,  had  you  offered,  I  would  have  received  it. 
And  God  sent  me  a  friend,  one  of  His  noblemen — the  last 
in  all  the  world  of  whom  I  could  ask  anything.  When  my 
fortunes  were  at  their  lowest  ebb  John  Morgan  came  back 
into  my  life." 

"John  Morgan!" 

"He  asked  no  questions.  He  simply  did  all  that  was 
necessary.  And  then  he  went  to  see  my  father.  I  had 
written  him,  but  he  had  never  replied;  he  went,  as  I 
learned  afterward,  simply  as  a  man  of  business  and  with 
out  sentiment.  You  can  imagine  the  scene.  No  other 
man  witnessed  it.  It  was,  he  told  me,  long  and  stormy. 

"The  result  was  that  I  would  be  received  at  home  when 
I  came  with  proofs  of  my  marriage. 

"I  was  greatly  relieved  at  first;  I  had  only  to  find  my 
husband  and  get  them.  I  found  him,  but  I  did  not  get 
them.  It  happened  to  be  a  bad  time  to  approach  him. 
Then  John  Morgan  tried,  and  that  was  unfortunate.  In 
my  despair  I  had  told  my  husband  of  that  prior  engage 
ment.  An  insane  jealousy  now  seized  him.  He  thought 
it  was  a  plot  to  recover  my  name  and  marry  me  to  Mr. 
Morgan.  He  held  the  key  to  the  situation  and  swore 
that  in  an  action  for  divorce  he  would  testify  there  had 
been  no  marriage ! 


264  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Then  we  went  forward  to  find  the  record.  We  never 
found  it.  If  years  of  search  and  great  expense  could  have 
accomplished  it,  we  would  have  succeeded.  It  was,  how 
ever,  a  fact;  I  remembered  standing  before  the  officiating 
officer  and  recalled  my  trembling  responses,  but  that  was 
all.  The  locality,  the  section,  whether  it  was  the  first  or 
second  day,  I  do  not  recall.  But,  as  God  is  my  judge,  I 
was  married." 

She  became  passionate.  Her  companion  soothed  her 
again. 

"Go  on,  my  child.    I  believe  you." 

"I  cannot  tell  you  a  part  of  this  sad  story;  I  have  not 
been  perfectly  open.  Some  day  I  will,  perhaps,  and  until 
that  time  comes  I  ask  you  to  keep  my  secret,  because 
there  are  good  reasons  now  for  silence;  you  will  appre 
ciate  them  when  you  know.  Gaspard  was  left — our  only 
chance.  Mr.  Morgan  sought  him,  I  sought  him ;  he  would 
have  given  him  any  sum  for  his  knowledge.  Gaspard 
would  have  sold  it,  we  thought;  want  would  have  made 
him  sell,  but  Gaspard  had  vanished  as  if  death  itself  had 
carried  him  off. 

"In  this  search  I  had  always  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Mor 
gan,  and  at  first  his  money  defrayed  all  expense;  but 
shortly  afterward  he  influenced  a  leading  opera  master  to 
give  me  a  chance,  and  I  sung  in  Paris  as  Gambia,  for  the 
first  time.  From  that  day  I  was  rich,  and  Marion  Evan 
disappeared  from  the  world. 

"Informed  weekly  of  home  affairs  and  my  dear  father, 
my  separation  was  lessened  of  half  its  terrors.  But  year 
after  year  that  unchanging  friend  stood  by  me.  The  time 
came  when  the  stern  face  was  the  grandest  object  on 
which  my  eyes  could  rest.  There  was  no  compact  be 
tween  us;  if  I  could  have  dissolved  the  marriage  tie  I 
would  have  accepted  him  and  have  been  happy.  But 
Gambia  could  take  no  chances  with  herself  nor  with  Gen. 
Evan!  Divorce  could  only  have  been  secured  by  three 
months'  publication  of  notice  in  the  papers  and  if  that 
reached  Gaspard  his  terrible  answer  would  have  been 
filed  and  I  would  have  been  disgraced. 

"The  American  war  had  passed  and  then  came  the 
French  war.  And  still  no  news  from  Gaspard.  And 


THE  HEART  OF  GAMBIA.  265 

one  day  came  John  Morgan,  with  the  proposition  that 
ten  years  of  abandonment  gave  me  liberty,  and  offered 
me  his  hand — and  fortune.  But — there  were  reasons — 
there  were  reasons.  I  could  not.  He  received  my  an 
swer  and  said  simply:  'You  are  right!'  After  that  we 
talked  no  more  upon  the  subject. 

"Clew  after  clew  was  exhausted;  some  led  us  into  a 
foreign  prison.  I  sung  at'  Christmas  to  the  convicts. 
Sometimes  a  little  song  that  Gaspard  had  written  for  me. 
All  seemed  touched;  but  none  were  overwhelmed;  Gas 
pard  was  not  among  them. 

"I  sung  upon  the  streets  of  Paris,  disguised;  all  Paris 
came  to  know  and  hear  'the  veiled  singer/  whose  voice, 
it  was  said,  'equaled  the  famous  Gambia's.  A  blind  vio 
linist  accompanied  me.  We  managed  it  skillfully.  He 
met  me  at  a  new  place  every  evening,  and  we  parted  at 
a  new  place,  I  alighting  from  the  cab  we  always  took,  at 
some  unfrequented  place,  and  sending  him  home.  And 
now,  madame,  do  you  still  believe  in  God?" 

"Implicitly." 

"Then  tell  me  why,  when,  a  few  days  since,  I  was  called 
by  your  friend  Mr.  Morgan  to  the  bedside  of  Gaspard 
Levigne,  the  old  musician,  who  had  accompanied  me  on 
the  streets  of  Paris,  why  was  it  that  God  in  His  mercy 
did  not  give  him  breath  to  enable  his  lips  to  answer  my 
pitiful  question ;  why,  if  there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  did  He 
not " 

"Hush,  Marion!"  The  calm,  sweet  voice  of  the  elder 
woman  rose  above  the  excitement  and  anguish  of  the 
singer.  "Hush,  my  child;  you  have  trusted  too  little  in 
Him !  God  is  great,  and  good  and  merciful.  I  can  say  it 
now;  I  will  say  it  when  His  shadows  fall  upon  my  eyes 
as  they  must  some  day." 

Awed  and  touched,  Gambia  looked  up  into  the  glorified 
face  and  was  silent. 

Neither  broke  that  stillness,  but  as  they  waited  a  violent 
step  was  heard  without,  and  a  voice: 

"Infamous!  Infamous!"  Edward  rushed  into  the  room, 
pale  and  horrified,  his  bursting  heart  finding  relief  only  in 
such  words. 

"What  is  it,  my  son — Edward!"  Mrs.  Montjoy  looked 
upon  him  reproachfully. 


266  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"I  am  accused  of  the  murder  of  Rita  Morgan!"  he 
cried.  He  did  not  see  Gambia,  who  had  drawn  back  from 
between  the  two,  and  was  looking  in  horror  at  him  as  she 
slowly  moved  toward  the  door. 

" You  accused,  Edward?  Impossible!  Why,  what  pos 
sible  motive " 

"Oh,  it  is  devilish!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  tore  the  Amer 
ican  paper  into  shreds.  "Devilish!  First  I  was  called  her 
son,  and  now  her  murderer!  I  murdered  her  to  destroy 
her  evidence,  is  the  charge!"  The  white  face  of  Gambia 
disappeared  through  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH. 

The  startling  news  had  been  discussed  in  all  its 
phases  in  the  little  parlor,  Mary  taking  no  part.  She  sat 
with  averted  face  listening,  but  ever  and  anon  when  Ed 
ward's  indignation  became  unrestrainable  she  turned  and 
looked  at  him.  She  did  not  know  that  the  paper  contained 
a  reference  to  her. 

The  astounding  revelation,  aside  from  the  accusation, 
was  the  wound.  Strange  that  he  had  not  discovered  it. 
Who  could  have  murdered  poor  Rita?  Positively  the 
only  person  on  the  immediate  premises  were  Virdow, 
Evan  and  Gerald.  Virdow  was  of  course  out  of  the  ques 
tion,  and  the  others  were  in  the  room.  It  was  the  blow 
that  had  driven  her  head  through  the  glass.  What  enemy 
could  the  woman  have  had? 

So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  charge  could  amount 
to  nothing;  Evan  was  in  the  room  with  him;  the  gen 
eral  would  surely  remember  that. 

But  the  horror,  the  mortification — he,  Edward  Morgan, 
charged  with  murder,  and  the  center  of  a  scandal  in  which 
the  name  of  Mary  Montjoy  was  mentioned. 

The  passion  left  him ;  depressed  and  sick  from  reaction 
he  sat  alone  in  the  little  parlor,  long  after  the  ladies  had 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH.  267 

retired;  and  then  came  the  climax.  A  cablegram  reached 
the  house  and  was  handed  in  to  him.  It  was  signed  by 
Evan  and  read: 

"You  have  been  indicted.     Return." 

"Indicted,"  and  for  murder,  of  course.  It  gave  him 
no  uneasiness,  but  it  thrust  all  light  and  sweetness  from 
life.  The  dream  was  over.  There  could  now  be  no  search 
for  Marion  Evan.  That  must  pass,  and  with  it  hope. 

He  had  builded  upon  that  idea  castles  whose  minarets 
wore  the  colors  of  sunrise.  They  had  fallen  and  his  life 
lay  among  the  ruins. 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  to  sleep,  but  the  gray 
of  dawn  was  already  over  the  city;  there  came  a  rumbling 
vehicle  in  the  street;  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  softly  closing 
door — and  then  he  arose  and  went  out.  The  early  morn 
ing  air  and  exercise  brought  back  his  physical  equipoise. 
He  returned  for  breakfast,  with  a  good  appetite,  and 
though  grave,  was  tranquil  again. 

Neither  of  the  ladies  brought  up  the  painful  subject; 
they  went  with  him  to  see  the  learned  oculist  and  came 
back  silent  and  oppressed.  There  was  no  hope. 

The  diagnosis  corresponded  with  Dr.  Campbell's;  the 
blind  eye  might  have  been  saved  years  ago,  but  an  oper 
ation  would  not  have  been  judicious  under  the  circum 
stances.  Continued  sight  must  depend  upon  her  general 
health. 

All  their  pleasures  and  hopes  buried  in  one  brief  day, 
they  turned  their  backs  on  Paris  and  started  homeward. 

Edward  saw  Gambia  no  more;  Mrs.  Montjoy  called 
alone  and  said  farewell.  The  next*day  they  sailed  from 
Havre. 

In  New  York  Norton  met  them,  grave  and  embarrassed 
for  once  in  his  life,  and  assisted  in  their  hurried  departure 
for  the  fair  southern  home.  There  was  no  exchange  of 
views  between  the  two  men.  The  paper  Norton  had  sent 
was  acknowledged;  that  was  all.  The  subject  was  too 
painful  for  discussion.  And  so  they  arrived  in  Georgia. 
They  were  met  by  the  Montjoy  carriage  at  a  little  station 
near  the  city.  It'  was  the  1 1 :2O  p.  m.  train.  Gen.  Evan 
was  waiting  for  Edward. 

The  handshaking  over,  they  rapidly  left  the  station. 


268  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

Evan  had  secured  from  the  sheriff  a  temporary  exemption 
from  arrest  for  Edward,  but  it  was  understood  that  he  was 
to  remain  out  of  sight. 

They  had  arrived  within  a  couple  of  miles  of  the  Cedars, 
having  only  broached  commonplace  subjects,  traveling- 
incidents  and  the  like,  when  a  negro  stopped  them.  In 
the  distance  they  heard  a  hound  trailing. 

"Boss,  kin  air  one  er  you  gentlemen  gi'  me  a  match? 
I  los'  my  light  back  yonder,  and  hit's  too  putty  'er  night 
ter  go  back  without  a  possum."  Evan  drew  rein.  He 
was  a  born  sportsman  and  sympathetic. 

"I  reckon  so,"  he  said;  "and — well,  I  can't,"  he  con 
cluded,  having  tried  all  pockets.  "Mr.  Morgan,  have 
you  a  match?"  Edward  had  one  and  one  only.  He  drew 
all  the  little  articles  of  his  pockets  into  his  hand  to  find  it. 

"Now,  hold,"  said  the  general;  "let's  light  our  cigars, 
if  it's  to  be  the  last  chance."  The  negro  touched  the  blaz 
ing  match  to  splinters  of  lightwood,  as  the  southern  pitch 
pine  is  called  when  dry,  and  instantly  he  stood  in  a  circle 
of  light,  his  features  revealed  in  every  detail.  Edward 
gazed  into  it  curiously.  Where  had  he  seen  that  face?  It 
came  back  like  the  lines  of  some  unpleasant  dream — the 
thick  lips,  the  flat  nose,  the  retreating  forehead,  full  eyes 
and  heavy  eyelids,  and  over  all  a  look  of  infinite  stupid 
ity.  The  negro  had  fixed  his  eyes  a  moment  upon  the 
articles  in  Edward's  hand  and  stepped  back  quickly.  But 
he  recovered  himself  and  with  clumsy  thanks,  holding 
up  his  flaming  torch,  went  away,  leaving  only  the  uncer 
tain  shadows  dancing  across  the  road. 

At  home  Gen.  Evsfti  threw  aside  all  reserve.  He  drew 
their  chairs  up  into  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  porch. 

"I  have  some  matters  to  talk  over,"  he  said,  "and  our 
time  is  short.  Yours  is  not  a  bailable  case  and  we  must 
have  a  speedy  trial.  The  law  winks  at  your  freedom  to 
night;  it  will  not  do  to  compromise  our  friends  in  the 
court  house  by  unnecessary  delay.  Edward,  where  was  I 
when  you  discovered  the  body  of  the  woman,  Rita  Mor 
gan?"  Edward  looked  through  the  darkness  at  his  friend, 
who  was  gazing  straight  ahead. 

"You  were  standing  by  Gerald's  bed,  looking  upon 
him." 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH.  269 

"How  did  you  discover  her?  It  never  occurred  to  me 
to  ask;  were  you  not  in  the  room  also?" 

"I  certainly  was.  She  broke  the  glass  by  pressing 
against  it,  as  I  thought  at  the  time,  but  now  I  see  she  was 
struck.  I  rushed  out  and  picked  her  up,  and  you  came 
when  I  called. 

"Exactly.    And  you  both  talked  loudly  out  there." 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because,"  said  Evan,  slowly,  "therein  lies  the  defect 
in  our  defense.  I  cannot  swear  you  were  in  the  room 
upon  my  own  knowledge.  I  had  been  astounded  by  the 
likeness  of  Gerald  to  those  who  had  been  dear  to  me — I 
was  absorbed.  Then  I  heard  you  cry  out,  and  found  you 
in  the  yard."  There  was  a  long  pause.  Edward's  heart 
began  to  beat  with  sledge-hammer  violence. 

"Then,"  he  said  with  a  strange  voice,  "as  the  case  would 
be  presented,  I  was  found  with  the  body  of  the  woman; 
she  had  been  murdered  and  I  was  the  only  one  who  had 
a  motive.  Is  that  it?" 

"That  is  it."  The  young  man  arose  and  walked  the 
porch  in  silence. 

"But  that  is  not  all,"  said  Gen.  Evan.  "If  it  were,  I 
would  have  cabled  you  to  go  east  from  Paris.  There  is 
more.  Is  there  any  one  on  earth  who  could  be  interested 
in  your  disgrace  or  death?" 

"None  that  I  know  of — that  is,  well,  no;  none  that  I 
know  of.  You  remember  Royson;  we  fought  that  out. 
He  cannot  cherish  enmity  against  a  man  who  fought  him 
in  an  open  field." 

"Perhaps  you  are  mistaken." 

"From  what  do  you  speak?" 

"You  had  been  in  Paris  but  a  few  days  when  one  night 
as  I  sat  here  your  friend  Barksdale — great  man  that 
Barksdale ;  a  trifle  heady  and  confident,  but  true  as  steel — 
Barksdale  came  flying  on  his  sorrel  up  the  avenue  and 
landed  here. 

"  'General/  said  he,  T  have  discovered  the  most  damna 
ble  plot  that  a  man  ever  faced.  All  this  scandal  about 
Morgan  is  not  newspaper  sensation  as  you  suppose,  it  is 
the  first  step  in  a  great  tragedy.'  And  then  he  went  on 
to  tell  me  that  Gerald  had  invaded  his  room  and  showed 


270  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

him  pictures  of  an  open  grave,  the  face  of  a  dead  woman 
and  also  the  face  of  the  man  who  opened  that  grave, 
drawn  with  every  detail  perfect.  Gerald  declared  that  he 
witnessed  the  disinterment  and  drew  the  scene  from 
memory " 

"Hold  a  minute,"  said  Edward ;  he  was  now  on  his  feet, 
his  hand  uplifted  to  begin  a  statement;  "and  then — and 
then " 

"The  object  of  that  disinterment  was  to  inflict  the  false 
wound  and  charge  you  with  murder." 

"And  the  man  who  did  it — who  made  that  wound — was 
the  man  who  begged  a  match  from  us  on  the  road.  I  will 
swear  it,  if  art  is  true.  I  have  seen  the  picture."  Evan 
paused  a  moment  to  take  in  the  vital  fact.  Then  there 
rung  out  from  him  a  half-shout: 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God!"  The  chairs  that  stood  be 
tween  him  and  the  door  were  simply  hurled  out  of  the 
way.  His  stentorian  voice  called  for  his  factotum.  "John !" 
and  John  did  not  wait  to  dress,  but  came. 

"Get  my  horse  and  a  mule  saddled  and  bring  that  puppy 
Carlo.  Quick,  John,  quick !"  John  fled  toward  the  stable. 
"Edward,  we  win  if  we  get  that  negro — we  win !"  he  ex 
claimed,  coming  back  through  the  wreck  of  his  furniture. 

"But  why  should  the  negro  have  disinterred  the  body 
and  have  made  a  wound  upon  her  head?  There  can  be  no 
motive." 

"Heavens,  man,  no  motive!  Do  you  know  that  you 
have  come  between  two  men  and  Mary  Montjoy?" 

"I,  no,  indeed!    I  have  never  suspected  it,  even." 

"Two  have  sought  her  with  all  the  energy  of  manhood," 
said  Evan.  "Two  men  as  different  as  the  east  from  the 
west.  Royson  hates  you  and  will  leave  no  stone  unturned 
to  effect  your  ruin;  Barksdale  loves  her  and  will  leave 
no  stone  unturned  to  protect  her  happiness!  There  you 
have  it  all.  Only  one  man  in  the  world  could  have  put 
that  black  devil  up  to  his  infamous  deed — and  that  man 
is  Royson.  Only  one  man  in  the  world  could  have 
grasped  the  situation  and  have  read  the  riddle  correctly- - 
and  that  man  is  Barksdale."  Edward  was  dazed.  Grad 
ually  the  depth  and  villainy  of  the  conspiracy  grew  clear. 

"But  to  prove  it " 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  TORCH.  271 

"The  negro." 

"Will  he  testify?" 

"Will  he?  If  I  get  my  hands  on  him,  young  man,  he 
will  testify!  Or  he  will  hang  by  the  neck  from  a  limb  as 
his  possum  hangs  by  the  tail." 

"You  propose  to  capture  him?" 

"I  am  going  to  capture  him."  He  disappeared  in  the 
house  and  when  he  came  out  he  had  on  his  army  belt, 
with  sword  and  pistol.  The  mounts  were  at  the  door  and 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Edward  was  astride  a  mule. 
To  his  surprise  the  animal  bounded  along  after  the  gray 
horse,  with  a  smooth  and  even  gait,  and  kept  up  without 
difficulty. 

Evan  rode  as  a  cavalryman  and  carried  across  his  sad 
dle  the  puppy.  With  unerring  skill  he  halted  at  the  exact 
spot  where  the  match  had  been  struck,  and  lowered  the 
dog  gently  to  the  ground.  The  intelligent,  excited  ani 
mal  at  once  took  up  the  trail  of  man  or  dogs,  and  opening 
loudly  glided  into  the  darkness.  They  followed. 

Several  miles  had  been  covered,  when  ihey  saw  in  the 
distance  a  glimmer  of  light  among  the  trees  and  Evan 
drew  rein. 

"It  will  not  do,"  he  said,  "to  ride  upon  him.  At  the 
sound  of  horses'  feet  he  will  extinguish  his  light  and  es 
cape.  The  dog,  he  will  suppose,  is  a  stray  one  led  off  by 
his  own  and  will  not  alarm  him."  They  tied  their  animals 
and  pressed  on. 

The  dog  ahead  had  opened  and  Carlo's  voice  could  be 
heard  with  the  rest,  as  they  trailed  the  fleeing  possum. 
The  general  was  exhausted.  "I  can't  do  it,  Edward,  my 
boy — go  on.  I  will  follow  as  fast  as  possible."  Without 
a  word  Edward  obeyed.  The  dogs  were  now  furious,  the 
man  himself  running.  In  the  din  and  clamor  he  could 
hear  nothing  of  pursuit.  The  first  intimation  he  had  of 
clanger  was  a  grip  on  his  collar  and  a  man's  voice  exclaim 
ing  excitedly: 

"Halt!     You  are  my  prisoner!" 

The  torch  fell  to  the  ground  and  lay  sputtering.  The 
negro  was  terrified  for  the  moment,  but  his  quick  eye 
pierced  the  gloom  and  measured  his  antagonist.  He 
made  a  fierce  effort  to  break  away,  and  failing,  threw 


272  SONS    AND    FATHERS 

himself  with  immense  force  upon  Edward.  Then  began 
a  frightful  struggle.  No  word  was  spoken.  The  negro 
was  powerful,  but  the  white  man  was  inspired  by  a  mem 
ory  and  a  consciousness  of  his  wrongs.  They  fell  and 
writhed,  and  rose  and  fell  again.  Slippery  Dick  had  got 
his  hand  upon  Edward's  throat.  Suddenly  his  grasp  re 
laxed  and  he  lay  with  the  white  of  his  eyes  rolled  upward. 
The  muzzle  of  a  cavalry  pistol  was  against  his  head  and 
the  stern  face  of  the  veteran  was  above  him. 

"Get  up !"  said  the  general,  briefly. 

"Certainly,  boss,"  was  the  reply,  and  breathless  the  two 
men  arose. 

The  defense  had  its  witness! 

"Ef  he  had'n  conjured  me,"  said  the  negro  doggedly, 
"he  couldn't  'er  done  it."  He  had  recognized  among  the 
little  things  that  Edward  drew  from  his  pocket  on  the 
road  the  voodoo's  charm. 

Edward,  breathless,  took  up  the  torch  and  looked  into 
Dick's  countenance.  "I  am  not  mistaken,  general,  this 
is  the  man." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
WHAT    THE    SHEET    HID. 

Slippery  Dick  was  puzzled  as  well  as  frightened.  He 
knew  Gen.  Evan  by  sight,  and  his  terror  lost  some  of  its 
wildness;  the  general  was  not  likely  to  be  out  upon  a 
lynching  expedition.  But  for  what  was  he  wanted?  He 
could  not  protest  until  he  knew  that,  and  in  his  past  were 
many  dark  deeds,  for  which  somebody  was  wanted.  So 
he  was  silent. 

His  attention  was  chiefly  directed  to  Edward;  he  could 
not  account  for  him,  nor  could  he  remember  to  have  seen 
him.  Royson  had  long  since  trained  him  to  silence;  most 
men  convict  themselves  while  under  arrest. 

Evan  stood  in  deep  thought,  but  presently  he  prepared 
for  action. 

"What  is  your  name,  boy?"  The  negro  answered 
promptly : 


WHAT  THE  SHEET  HID.  273 

"Dick,  sah." 

"Dick  who?" 

"Just  Dick,  sah." 

"Your  other  name?" 

"Slippery  Dick."    The  general  was  interested  instantly. 

"Oh,  Slippery  Dick."  The  career  of  the  notorious  ne 
gro  was  partially  known  to  him.  Dick  had  been  the  re 
porter's  friend  for  many  years  and  in  dull  times  more 
than  the  truth  had  been  told  of  Slippery  Dick.  "Well 
this  begins  to  look  probable,  Edward;  I  begin  to  think 
you  may  be  right." 

"I  am  not  mistaken,  general.  If  there  is  a  mistake,  it 
is  not  mine." 

"What  dey  want  me  for,  Marse  Evan?  I  ain't  done 
nothin'." 

"A  house  has  been  broken  into,  Dick,  and  you  are  the 
man  who  did  it." 

"Who,  me?  Fo'  Gawd,  Marse  Evan,  I  ain't  broke  inter 
no  man's  house.  It  warn't  me — no  sah,  no  sah." 

"We  will  see  about  that.  Now  I  will  give  you  your 
choice,  Dick;  you  can  go  with  me,  Gen.  Evan,  and  I  will 
protect  you.  If  the  person  who  accuses  you  says  you  are 
innocent  I  will  turn  you  loose;  if  you  are  not  willing  to 
go  there  I  will  take  you  to  jail;  but,  willing  or  unwilling, 
if  you  make  a  motion  to  escape,  I  will  put  a  bullet  through 
you  before  you  can  take  three  steps." 

"I'll  go  with  you,  Marse  Evan;  I  ain't  de  man.  I'll  go 
whar  you  want  me  to  go." 

"Get  your  dogs  together  and  take  the  road  to  town.  I 
will  show  you  when  we  get  there."  They  went  with  him 
to  where  his  dogs,  great  and  small,  were  loudly  baying  at 
the  root  of  a  small  persimmon  tree.  Dick  looked  up  wist 
fully. 

"Marse  Evan,  deir  he  sots ;  you  don't  spec  me  ter  leave 
dat  possum  up  dere?"  The  old  man  laughed  silently. 

"The  ruling  passion  strong  in  death,"  he  quoted  to 
Edward,  and  then  sternly  to  Dick:  "Get  him  and  be 
quick  about  it."  A  moment  more  and  they  were  on  the 
way  to  the  horses. 

"I  had  an  object,"  said  Evan,  "in  permitting  this.  As 
we  pass  through  the  city  we  present  the  appearance  of  a 
18 


274  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

hunting  party.  Turn  up  your  coat  collar  and  turn  down 
your  hat  to  avoid  the  possibility  of  recognition." 

They  reached  the  city,  passed  through  the  deserted 
streets,  the  negro  carrying  his  possum  and  surrounded 
by  the  dogs  preceding  the  riders,  and,  without  attracting 
more  than  the  careless  notice  of  a  policeman  or  two,  they 
reached  the  limits  beyond. 

Still  Dick  was  not  suspicious;  the  road  was  his  own 
way  home;  but  when  finally  he  was  ordered  to  turn  up 
the  long  route  to  Ilexhurst,  he  stopped.  This  was  an 
ticipated;  the  general  spurted  his  horse  almost  against 
him. 

"Go  on!"  he  said,  sternly,  "or  by  the  Eternal  you  are 
a  dead  man!  Edward,  if  he  makes  a  break,  you  have  the 
ax " 

"Marse  Evan,  you  said  breakin'  in  'er  house."  Dick 
still  hesitated. 

"I  did;  but  it  was  the  house  of  the  dead." 

The  possum  came  suddenly  to  the  ground,  and  away 
went  Dick  into  an  open  field,  the  expectation  of  a  bullet 
lending  speed  to  his  legs.  But  he  was  not  in  the  slightest 
danger  from  bullets;  he  was  the  last  man,  almost,  that 
either  of  his  captors  would  have  slain,  nor  was  it  neces 
sary.  The  great  roan  came  thundering  upon  him;  he 
lifted  his  arm  to  ward  off  the  expected  blow  and  looked 
up  terrified.  The  next  instant  a  hand  was  on  his  coat 
collar,  and  he  was  lifted  off  his  feet.  Dragging  his  pris 
oner  into  the  road,  Evan  held  his  pistol  over  his  wet  fore 
head,  while,  with  the  rein,  Edward  lashed  his  elbows  be 
hind  his  back.  The  dogs  were  fighting  over  the  re-mains 
of  the  unfortunate  possum.  They  left  them  there. 

The  three  men  arrived  at  Ilexhurst  thoroughly  tired; 
the  white  men  more  so  than  the  negro.  Tying  their  ani 
mals,  Edward  led  the  way  around  to  the  glass-room, 
where  a  light  was  burning,  but  to  his  disappointment  on 
entering  he  found  no  occupant.  Slippery  Dick  was 
placed  in  a  chair  and  the  door  locked.  Evan  stood  guard 
over  him,  while  Edward  searched  the  house.  The  wing- 
room  was  dark  and  Gerald  was  not  to  be  found.  From 
the  door  of  the  professor's  room  came  the  cadenced 
breathing  of  a  profound  sleeper.  Returning,  Edward 


WHAT  THE  SHEET  HID.  275 

communicated  these  facts  to  his  companion.  They  dis 
cussed  the  situation. 

Evan,  oppressed  by  the  memory  of  his  last  two  visits 
to  these  scenes,  was  silent  and  distrait.  The  eyes  of  the 
negro  were  moving  restlessly  from  point  to  point,  taking 
in  every  detail  of  his  surroundings.  The  scene,  the  hour, 
the  situation  and  the  memory  of  that  shriveled  face  in  its 
coffin  all  combined  to  reduce  Dick  to  a  state  of  abject  ter 
ror.  Had  he  not  been  tied  he  would  have  plunged  through 
the  glass  into  the  night ;  the  pistol  in  the  hands  of  the  old 
man  standing  over  him  would  have  been  forgotten. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Edward  went  into  the  wing- 
room  and  lighted  the  lamps  preparatory  to  making  better 
arrangements  for  all  parties.  Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  lounge.  Extended  upon  it  was  a  form  outlined  through 
a  sheet  that  covered  it  from  head  to  foot.  So  still,  so  im 
movable  and  breathless  it  seemed,  he  drew  back  in  hor 
ror.  An  indefinable  fear  seized  him.  White,  with  unex 
pressed  horror,  he  stood  in  the  door  of  the  glass-room 
and  beckoned  to  the  general.  The  silence  of  his  appear 
ance,  the  inexpressible  terror  that  shone  in  his  face  and 
manner,  sent  a  thrill  to  the  old  man's  heart  and  set  the 
negro  trembling. 

Driving  the  negro  before  him,  Evan  entered.  At  sight 
of  the  covered  form  Dick  made  a  violent  effort  to  break 
away,  but,  with  nerves  now  at  their  highest  tension  and 
muscles  drawn  responsive,  the  general  successfully  re 
sisted.  Enraged  at  last  he  stilled  his  captive  by  a  savage 
blow  with  his  weapon. 

Edward  now  approached  the  apparition  and  lifted  the 
cloth.  Prepared  as  he  was  for  the  worst,  he  could,  not 
restrain  the  cry  of  horror  that  rose  to  his  lips.  Before 
him  was  the  face  of  Gerald,  white  with  the  hue  of  death, 
the  long  lashes  drooped  over  half-closed  eyes,  the  black 
hair  drawn  back  from  the  white  forehead  and  clustering 
about  his  neck  and  shoulders.  He  fell  almost  fainting 
against  the  outstretched  arm  of  his  friend,  who,  pale 
and  shocked,  stood  with  eyes  riveted  upon  the  fatal  beaut v 
of  the  dead  face. 

It  was  but  an  instant ;  then  the  general  was  jerked  with 
irresistible  force  and  fell  backward  into  the  room,  Ed- 


276  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

ward  going  nearly  prostrate  over  him.    There  was  the 
sound  of  shattered  glass  and  the  negro  was  gone. 

Stunned  and  hurt,  the  old  man  rose  to  his  feet  and 
rushed  to  the  door  of  the  glass-room.  Then  a  pain  seized 
him ;  he  drew  his  bruised  limb  from  the  floor  and  caught 
the  lintel. 

"Stop  that  man!  Stop  that  man!"  he  said  in  a  stentorian 
voice;  "he  is  your  only  witness  now!"  Edward  looked 
into  his  face  a  moment  and  comprehended.  For  the 
third  time  that  night  he  plunged  into  the  darkness  after 
Slippery  Dick.  But  where?  Carlo  was  telling!  Down 
the  hill  his  shrill  voice  was  breaking  the  night.  Aban 
doned  by  the  negro's  dogs,  accustomed  to  seek  their' 
home  and  that  not  far  away,  he  had  followed  the  master's 
footsteps  with  unerring  instinct  and  whined  about  the 
glass  door.  The  bursting  glass,  the  fleeing  form  of  a 
strange  negro,  were  enough  for  his  excitable  nature;  he 
gave  voice  and  took  the  trail. 

The  desperate  effort  of  the  negro  might  have  suc 
ceeded,  but  the  human  arms  were  made  for  many  things ; 
when  a  man  stumbles  he  needs  them  in  the  air  and  over 
head  or  extended.  Slippery  Dick  went  down  with  a  crash 
in  a  mass  of  blackberry  bushes,  and  when  Edward  reached 
him  he  was  kicking  wildly  at  the  excited  puppy,  prevented 
from  rising  by  his  efforts  and  his  bonds.  The  excited  and 
enraged  white  man  dragged  him  out  of  the  bushes  by  his 
collar  and  brought  reason  to  her  throne  by  savage  kicks. 
The  prisoner  gave  up  and  begged  for  mercy. 

He  was  marched  back,  all  breathless,  to  the  general, 
who  had  limped  to  the  gate  to  meet  him. 

Edward  was  now  excited  beyond  control;  he  forced  the 
prisoner,  shivering  with  horror,  into  the  presence  of  the 
corpse,  and  with  the  ax  in  hand  confronted  him. 

"You  infamous  villain!"  he  cried;  "tell  me  here,  in  the 
presence  of  my  dead  friend,  who  it  was  that  put  you  up  to 
opening  the  grave  of  Rita  Morgan  and  breaking  her 
skull,  or  I  will  brain  you!  You  have  ten  seconds  to 
speak!"  He  meant  it,  and  the  ax  flashed  in  the  air.  Gen. 
Evan  caught  the  upraised  arm. 

"Softly,  softly,  Edward;  this  won't  do;  this  won't  do! 
You  defeat  your  own  purpose!"  It  was  timely;  the  blow 


ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS.  277 

might  have  descended,  for  the  reckless  man  was  in  earn 
est,  and  the  negro  was  by  this  time  dumb. 

"Dick,"  said  the  general,  "I  promised  to  protect  you 
on  conditions,  and  I  will.  But  you  have  done  this  gentle 
man  an  injury  and  endangered  his  life.  You  opened  Rita 
Morgan's  grave  and  broke  her  skull — an  act  for  which  the 
law  has  no  adequate  punishment;  but  my  young  friend 
here  is  desperate.  You  can  save  yourself,  but  I  cannot 
save  you  except  in  one  way.  If  you  value  your  life  tell 
him  and  tell  me  who  put  you  up  to  that  job.  If  you  tell 
I  give  you  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman  that  no 
man  shall  harm  you  except  over  my  dead  body.  If  you 
refuse  I  will  stand  aside,  and  when  I  do  you  are  a  dead 
man."  He  was  during  this  hurried  speech  still  struggling 
with  the  young  man. 

'Til  tell,  Marse  Evan!    Hold  'im.    I'll  tell!" 

"Who,  then?"  said  Edward,  white  with  his  passion; 
"who  was  the  infamous  villain  that  paid  you  for  the  deed?" 

"Mr.  Royson,  Mr.  Royson,  he  hired  me."  The  men 
looked  at  each  other.  A  revulsion  came  over  Edward;  a 
horror,  a  hatred  of  the  human  race,  of  anything  that  bore 
the  shape  of  man — but  no ;  the  kind,  sad  face  of  the  old 
gentleman  was  beaming  in  triumph  upon  him. 

And  then  from  somewhere  into  the  scene  came  the 
half-dressed  form  of  Virdow,  his  face  careworn  and 
weary,  amazed  and  alarmed. 

*  *  * 

Virdow  wrote  the  confession  in  all  its  details,  and  the 
general  witnessed  the  rude  cross  made  by  the  trembling 
hand  of  the  negro.  And  then  they  stood  sorrowful  and 
silent  before  the  still,  dead  face  of  Gerald  Morgan! 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 
ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS. 

The  discovery  of  Gerald's  death  necessitated  a  change 
of  plans.  The  concealment  of  Slippery  Dick  and  Edward 
must  necessarily  be  accomplished  at  Ilexhurst.  There 


278  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

were  funeral  arrangements  to  be  made,  the  property 
cared  for  and  Virdow  to  be  rescued  from  his  solitary  and 
embarrassing  position.  Moreover,  the  gray  dawn  was 
on  ere  the  confession  was  written,  and  Virdow  had  briefly 
explained  the  circumstances  of  Gerald's  death.  Exhausted 
by  excitement  and  anxiety  and  the  depression  of  grief,  he 
went  to  his  room  and  brought  Edward  a  sealed  packet 
which  had  been  written  and  addressed  to  him  during  the 
early  hours  of  the  night. 

"You  will  find  it  all  there,"  he  said;  "I  cannot  talk 
upon  it."  He  went  a  moment  to  look  upon  the  face  of 
his  young  friend  and  then,  with  a  single  pathetic  gesture, 
turned  and  left  them. 

One  of  the  eccentricities  of  the  former  owner  of  Ilex- 
hurst  had  been  a  granite  smoke-house,  not  only  burglar 
and  fireproof  but  cyclone  proof,  and  with  its  oaken  door 
it  constituted  a  formidable  jail. 

With  food  and  water,  Dick,  freed  of  his  bonds,  was 
ushered  into  this  building,  the  small  vents  in  the  high  roof 
affording  enough  light  for  most  purposes.  A  messenger 
was  then  dispatched  for  Barksdale  and  Edward  locked 
himself  away  from  sight  of  chance  callers  in  his  upper 
room.  The  general,  thoughtful  and  weary,  sat  by  the 
dead  man. 

The  document  that  Virdow  had  prepared  was  written 
in  German.  "When  your  eye  reads  these  lines,  you  will 
be  grieved  beyond  endurance;  Gerald  is  no  more!  He  was 
killed  to-night  by  a  flash  of  lightning  and  his  death  was 
instantaneous.  I  am  alone,  heartbroken  and  utterly 
wretched.  Innocent  of  any  responsibility  in  this  horrible 
tragedy  I  was  yet  the  cause,  since  it  was  while  submitting 
to  some  experiments  of  mine  that  he  received  his  death 
stroke.  I  myself  received  a  frightful  electric  shock,  but 
it  now  amounts  to  nothing.  I  would  to  God  that 
I  and  not  he  had  received  the  full  force  of  the  discharge. 
He  might  have  been  of  vast  service  to  science,  but  my 
work  is  little  and  now  well-nigh  finished. 

"Gerald  was  kneeling  under  a  steel  disk,  in  the  glass- 
room,  you  will  remember  where  we  began  our  sound  ex 
periments,  and  I  did  not  know  that  the  steel  wire  which 
suspended  it  ran  up  and  ended  near  a  metal  strip,  along 


ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS.  279 

the  ridge  beam  of  the  room.  We  had  just  begun  our  in 
vestigation,  when  the  flash  descended  and  he  fell  dead. 

"At  this  writing  I  am  here  under  peculiar  circumstances; 
the  butler  who  came  to  my  call  when  I  recovered  con 
sciousness  assisted  me  in  the  attempt  at  resuscitation  of 
Gerald,  but  without  any  measure  of  success.  He  then 
succeeded  in  getting  one  or  two  of  the  old  negroes  and  a 
doctor.  The  latter  declared  life  extinct.  There  was  no 
disfigurement — only  a  black  spot  in  the  crown  of  the  head 
and  a  dark  line  down  the  spine,  where  the  electric  fluid 
had  passed.  That  was  all." 

Edward  ceased  to  read;  his  chin  sunk  upon  his  breast 
and  the  lines  slipped  from  his  unfocused  eyes.  The  dark 
line  down  the  spine!  His  heart  leaped  fiercely  and  he 
lifted  his  face  with  a  new  light  in  his  eyes.  For  a  moment 
it  was  radiant;  then  shame  bowed  his  head  again.  He 
laid  aside  the  paper  and  gave  himself  up  to  thought,  from 
time  to  time  pacing  the  room.  In  these  words  lay  eman 
cipation.  He  resumed  the  reading: 

"We  arranged  the  body  on  the  lounge  and  determined 
to  wait  until  morning,  and  sent  for  the  coroner  and  un 
dertaker,  but  one  by  one  your  negroes  disappeared.  They 
could  not  seem  to  withstand  their  superstition,  the  butler 
told  me,  and  as  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  I  did  not 
worry.  I  came  here  to  the  library  to  write,  and  when  I 
returned,  the  butler,  too,  was  gone.  They  are  a  strange 
people.  I  suppose  I  will  see  none  of  them  until  morning, 
but  it  does  not  matter ;  my  poor  friend  is  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  attention.  His  rare  mind  has  become  a  part  of 
cosmos;  its  relative  situation  is  our  mystery. 

"I  will,  now,  before  giving  you  a  minute  description 
of  our  last  evening  together,  commit  for  your  eye  my  con 
clusions  as  to  some  of  the  phenomena  and  facts  you 
have  observed.  I  am  satisfied  so  far  as  Gerald's  origin 
is  concerned,  that  he  is  either  the  son  of  the  woman 
Rita  or  that  they  are  in  some  way  connected  by  ties  of 
blood.  In  either  case  the  similarity  of  their  profiles  would 
be  accounted  for.  No  matter  how  remote  the  connection, 
nothing  is  so  common  as  this  reappearance  of  tribal  feat 
ures  in  families.  The  woman,  you  told  me,  claimed  him 
as  her  child,  but  silently  waived  that  claim  for  his  sake. 


280  SONS   AND  FATHERS. 

I  say  to  you  that  a  mother's  instinct  is  based  upon  some 
thing  deeper  than  mere  fancy,  and  that  intuitions  are  so 
nearly  correct  that  I  class  them  as  the  nearest  approach 
to  mind  memory  to  be  observed. 

"The  likeness  of  his  full  face  to  the  picture  of  the  girl 
you  call  Marion  Evan  may  be  the  result  of  influences 
exerted  at  birth.  Do  you  remember  the  fragmentary 
manuscript?  If  that  is  a  history,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that 
it  is  explanation  enough.  At  any  rate,  the  profile  is  a 
stronger  evidence  the  other  way. 

"The  reproduction  of  the  storm  scene  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  incidents  I  have  ever  known,  but  it  is 
not  proof  that  he  inherited  it  as  a  memory.  It  is  a  picture 
forcibly  projected  upon  his  imagination  by  the  author  of 
the  fragment — and  in  my  opinion  he  had  read  that  frag 
ment.  It  came  to  him  as  a  revelation,  completing  the 
gap.  I  am  sure  that  from  the  day  that  he  read  it  he  was 
for  long  periods  convinced  that  he  was  the  son  of  Rita 
Morgan;  that  she  had  not  lied  to  him.  In  this  I  am  con 
firmed  by  the  fact  that  as  she  lay  dead  he  bent  above 
her  face  and  called  her  'mother.'  I  am  just  as  well  as 
sured  that  he  had  no  memory  of  the  origin  of  that 
picture;  no  memory,  in  fact,  of  having  read  the  paper. 
This  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but  any  one  who  has 
had  the  care  of  victims  of  opium  will  accept  the  proposi 
tion  as  likely. 

"The  drawing  of  the  woman's  face  was  simple.  His 
hope  had  been  to  find  himself  the  son  of  Marion  Evan ; 
his  dreams  were  full  of  her.  He  had  seen  the  little 
picture;  his  work  was  an  idealized  copy,  but  it  must  be 
admitted  a  marvelous  work.  Still  the  powers  of  concen 
tration  in  this  man  exceeded  the  powers  of  any  one  I 
have  ever  met. 

"And  that  brings  me  to  what  was  the  most  wonderful 
demonstration  he  gave  us.  Edward,  I  have  divined  your  se 
cret,  although  you  have  never  told  it.  When  you  went  to 
secure  for  me  the  note  of  the  waterfall,  the  home  note, 
you  were  accompanied  by  your  friend  Mary.  I  will  stake 
my  reputation  upon  it.  It  is  true  because  it  is  obliged  to 
be  true.  When  you  played  for  us  you  had  her  in  your 
mind,  a  vivid  picture,  and  Gerald  drew  it.  It  was  a  case 


ON  THE  MARGINS  OF  TWO  WORLDS.  281 

of  pure  thought  transference — a  transference  of  a  mental 
conception,  line  for  line.  Gerald  received  his  conception 
from  you  upon  the  vibrating  air.  To  me  it  was  a  demon 
stration  worth  my  whole  journey  to  America. 

"And  here  let  me  add,  as  another  proof  of  the  sympa 
thetic  chord  between  you,  that  Gerald  himself  had  learned 
to  love  the  same  woman.  You  gave  him  that,  rny  young 
friend,  with  the  picture. 

"You  have  by  this  time  been  made  acquainted  with  the 
terrible  accusation  against  you — false  and  infamous. 
There  will  be  little  trouble  in  clearing  yourself,  but  oh, 
what  agony  to  your  sensitive  nature !  I  tried  to  keep  the 
matter  from  Gerald,  as  I  did  the  inquest,  by  keeping  him 
busy  with  investigations;  but  a  paper  fell  into  his  hands 
and  his  excitement  was  frightful.  Evading  me  he  disap 
peared  from  the  premises  one  evening,  but  while  I  was 
searching  for  him  he  came  to  the  house  in  a  carriage, 
bringing  the  picture  of  that  repulsive  negro,  which  you 
will  remember.  Since  then  he  has  been  more  calm.  Mr. 
Barksdale,  your  friend,  I  suppose,  was  with  him  once  or 
twice. 

"And  now  I  come  to  this,  the  last  night  of  our  associa 
tion  upon  earth;  the  night  that  has  parted  us  and  rolled 
between  us  the  mystery  across  which  our  voices  cannot 
reach  nor  our  ears  hear. 

"Gerald  had  long  since  been  satisfied  with  the  ability 
of  living  substance  to  hold  a  photograph,  and  convinced 
that  these  photographs  lie  dormant,  so  to  speak,  some 
where  in  our  consciousness  until  awakened  again — that 
is,  until  made  vivid.  He  was  proceeding  carefully  toward 
the  proposition  that  a  complete  memory  could  be  inher 
ited,  and  in  the  second  generation  or  even  further  re 
moved;  you  know  his  theory.  There  were  intermediate 
propositions  that  needed  confirmation.  When  forms  and 
scenes  come  to  the  mind  of  the  author,  pure  harmonies  of 
color  to  that  of  the  artist,  sweet  co-ordinations  of  harmo 
nies  to  the  musician.  Whence  do  they  come?  Where  is 
the  thread  of  connection?  Most  men  locate  the  seat  of 
their  consciousness  at  the  top  of  the  head;  they  seem  to 
think  in  that  spot.  And  strange,  is  it  not,  that  when  life 
passes  out  and  all  the  beautiful  structure  of  the  body 


282  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

claimed  by  the  frost  of  death,  that  heat  lingers  longest 
at  that  point!  It  is  material  in  this  letter,  because  ex 
plaining  Gerald's  idea.  He  wished  me  to  subject  him  to 
the  finest  vibrations  at  that  point. 

"The  experiment  was  made  with  a  new  apparatus, 
which  had  been  hung  in  place  of  the  first  in  the  glass- 
room;  or,  rather,  to  this  we  made  an  addition.  A  thin 
steel  plate  was  fixed  to  the  floor,  directly  under  the  wire 
and  elevated  upon  a  small  steel  rod.  Gerald  insisted  that 
as  the  drum  and  membrane  I  used  made  the  shapes  we 
secured,  a  new  experiment  should  be  tried,  with  simple 
vibrations.  So  we  hung  in  its  place  a  steel  disk  with  a 
small  projection  from  the  center,  underneath.  Kneeling 
upon  the  lower  disk  Gerald  was  between  two  plates  sub 
ject  to  the  finest  vibration,  his  sensitive  body  the  connec 
tion.  There  was  left  a  gap  of  one  inch  between  his  head 
and  the  projection  under  the  upper  disk  and  we  were  to 
try  first  with  the  gap  closed,  and  then  with  it  opened. 

"You  know  how  excitable  he  was.  When  he  took  his 
position  he  was  white  and  his  large  eyes  flashed  fire.  His 
face  settled  into  that  peculiarly  harsh,  fierce  expression, 
for  which  I  have  never  accounted  except  upon  the  sup 
position  of  nervous  agony.  The  handle  to  his  violin  had 
been  wrapped  with  fine  steel  wire,  and  this,  extending  a 
yard  outward,  was  bent  into  a  tiny  hook,  intended  to  be 
clasped  around  the  suspended  wire,  that  it  might  convey 
to  it  the  full  vibrations  from  the  sounding  board  of  the  in 
strument.  I  made  this  connection,  and,  with  the  violin 
against  my  ear,  prepared  to  strike  the  'A'  note  in  the 
higher  octave,  which  if  the  vibrations  were  fine  enough 
should  suggest  in  his  mind  the  figure  of  a  daisy. 

"Gerald,  his  eyes  closed,  remained  motionless  in  his 
kneeling  posture.  Suddenly  a  faint  flash  of  light  de 
scended  into  the  room  and  the  thunder  rolled.  And  I, 
standing  entranced  by  the  beauty  and  splendor  of  that 
face,  lost  all  thought  of  the  common  laws  of  physics.  A 
look  of  rapture  had  suffused  it,  his  eyes  now  looked  out 
upon  some  vision,  and  a  tender  smile  perfected  the  ex 
quisite  curve  of  his  lips.  There  was  no  need  of  violin  out 
side,  the  world  was  full  of  the  fine  quiverings  of  electric- 
itv,  the  earth's  invisible  envelope  was  full  of  vibrations! 


WAR  TO  THE  KNIFE.  283 

Nature  was  speaking  a  language  of  its  own.  What  that 
mind  saw  between  the  glories  of  this  and  the  other  life 
as  it  trembled  on  the  margins  of  both,  is  not  given  to  me 
to  know;  but  a  vision  had  come  to  him — of  what? 

uAh,  Edward,  how  different  the  awakening  for  him 
and  me!  I  remember  that  for  a  moment  I  seemed  to 
float  in  a  sea  of  flame ;  there  was  a  shock  like  unto  noth 
ing  I  had  ever  dreamed,  and  lying  near  me  upon  the  floor, 
his  mortal  face  startled  out  of  its  beautiful  expression, 
lay  Gerald— dead!" 

The  conclusion  of  the  letter  covered  the  proposed  ar 
rangements  for  interment.  Edward  had  little  time  to  re 
flect  upon  the  strange  document.  The  voice  of  Gen.  Evan 
was  heard  calling  at  the  foot  of  the  stair.  Looking  down 
he  saw  standing  by  him  the  straight,  manly  figure  of 
Barksdale.  The  hour  of  dreams  had  ended;  the  hour  of 
action  had  arrived! 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

WAR    TO    THE    KNIFE. 

Barksdale  heard  the  events  of  the  night,  as  detailed  by 
the  general,  without  apparent  emotion.  He  had  gone 
with  them  to  look  upon  the  remains  of  Gerald.  He 
brought  from  the  scene  only  a  graver  look  in  his  face,  a 
more  gentle  tone  in  his  voice.  These,  however,  soon 
passed.  He  was  again  the  cold,  stern, -level-headed  man 
of  affairs,  listening  to  a  strange  story.  He  lost  no  detail 
and  his  quick,  trained  mind  gave  each  matter  its  true 
position. 

The  death  of  Gerald  was  peculiarly  unfortunate  for 
Edward.  They  had  now  nothing  left  but  the  negro,  and 
negro  testimony  could  be  bought  for  little  money.  He 
would  undertake  to  buy  just  such  evidence  as  Dick  had 
given  from  a  dozen  men  in  ten  days  and  the  first  man  he 
would  have  sought  would  be  Slippery  Dick,  and  the  pub 
lic  would  be  thrown  into  doubt  as  to  Royson  by  the  fact 
of  deadly  enmity  between  the  men.  To  introduce  Dick 


284  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

upon  the  stand  to  testify  and  not  support  his  testimony 
would  be  almost  a  confession  of  guilt.  The  negro  was 
too  well  known.  Gerald's  statement  would  not  be  ad 
missible,  though  his  picture  might.  But  of  what  avail 
would  the  picture  be  without  the  explanation? 

Barksdale  pointed  out  this  clearly  but  briefly.  Gen. 
Evan  was  amazed  that  such  a  situation  had  not  already 
presented  itself.  The  court  case  would  have  been  Dick's 
word  against  Royson's;  the  result  would  not  have  been 
doubtful.  The  least  that  could  be  hoped  for,  if  the  state 
made  out  a  case  against  Edward,  was  imprisonment. 

But  there  was  more;  a  simple  escape  was  not  suffi 
cient;  Edward  must  not  only  escape  but  also  show  the 
conspiracy  and  put  it  where  it  belonged.  He,  Barksdale, 
had  no  doubt  upon  that  point.  Royson  was  the  guilty 
man. 

This  analysis  of  the  situation,  leaving  as  it  did  the 
whole  matter  open  again,  and  the  result  doubtful,  filled 
Evan  with  anxiety  and  vexation. 

"I  thought,"  said  he,  walking  the  floor,  "that  we  had 
everything  fixed ;  that  the  only  thing  necessary  would  be 
to  hold  to  the  negro  and  bring  him  in  at  the  right  time. 
If  he  died  or  got  away  we  had  his  confession  witnessed." 
Barksdale  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,"  he  said,  "to  hold  the 
negro  and  bring  him  in  at  the  right  time,  but  in  my  opin 
ion  it  is  vital  to  the  case  that  the  negro  be  kept  from  com 
municating  with  Royson,  and  that  the  fact  of  his  arrest  be 
concealed.  Where  have  you  got  him?" 

"In  the  stone  smoke-house,"  said  Edward. 

"Tied." 

"No." 

"Then,"  said  Barksdale,  arising  at  once,  "if  not  too  late 
you  must  tie  him.  There  is  no  smoke-house  in  existence 
and  no  jail  in  this  section  that  can  hold  Slippery  Dick  if 
his  hands  are  free."  Thoroughly  alarmed,  Gen.  Evan  led 
the  way  and  Edward  followed.  Barksdale  waved  the  lat 
ter  back. 

"Don't  risk  being  seen;  we  can  attend  to  this."  They 
opened  the  door  and  looked  about  the  dim  interior;  it  was 
empty.  With  a  cry  the  general  rushed  in. 


WAR  TO  THE  KNIFE.  285 

"He  is  gone!"  Barksdale  stood  at  the  door;  the  build 
ing  was  a  square  one,  with  racks  overhead  for  hanging 
meat.  There  was  not  the  slightest  chance  of  concealment. 
A  mound  of  earth  in  one  corner  aroused  his  suspicions. 
He  went  to  it,  found  a  burrow  and,  running  his  arm  into 
this,  he  laid  hold  of  a  human  leg. 

"Just  in  time,  general,  he  is  here!"  With  a  powerful 
effort  he  drew  the  negro  into  the  light.  In  one  hour 
more  he  would  have  been  under  the  foundations  and 
gone.  Dick  rose  and  glanced  at  the  open  door  as  he 
brushed  the  dirt  from  his  eyes,  but  there  was  a  grip  of 
steel  upon  his  collar,  and  a  look  in  the  face  before  him 
that  suggested  the  uselessness  of  resistance.  The  general 
recovered  the  strap  and  bound  the  elbows  as  before. 

"I  will  bring  up  shackles,"  said  Barksdale,  briefly.  "In 
the  meantime,  this  will  answer.  But  you  know  the  stake ! 
Discharge  the  house  servant,  and  I  will  send  a  man  of  my 
own  selection.  In  the  meantime  look  in  here  occasion 
ally."  They  returned  to  the  house  and  into  the  library, 
where  they  found  Edward  and  informed  him  of  the  ar 
rangements. 

"Now,"  said  Barksdale,  "this  is  the  result  of  my  efforts 
in  another  direction.  The  publication  of  libelous  articles 
is  almost  impossible,  with  absolute  secrecy  as  to  the 
authorship.  A  good  detective,  with  time  and  money,  can 
unravel  the  mystery  and  fix  the  responsibility  upon  the 
guilty  party.  I  went  into  this  because  Mr.  Morgan  was 
away,  and  the  circumstances  were  such  that  he  could  not 
act  in  the  simplest  manner  if  he  found  the  secret.  He 
had  drawn  from  his  pocket  a  number  of  papers,  and  to 
these,  as  he  proceeded,  he  from  time  to  time  referred. 

"We  got  our  first  clew  by  purchase.  Sometimes  in  a 
newspaper  office  there  is  a  man  who  is  keen  enough  to 
preserve  a  sheet  of  manuscript  that  he  'sets  up,'  when  re 
flection  suggests  that  it  may  be  of  future  value.  Briefly, 
I  found  such  a  man  and  bought  this  sheet" — lifting  it  a 
moment — "of  no  value  except  as  to  the  handwriting. 

"The  first  step  toward  discovering  the  name  of  the 
Tell-Tale  correspondent  was  a  matter  of  difficulty,  from 
the  nature  of  the  paper.  There  was  always  in  this  case 
the  dernier  ressort;  the  editor  could  be  forced  at  the  point 


286  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

of  a  pistol.  But  that  was  hazardous.  The  correspondent's 
name  was  discovered  in  this  way:  We  offered  and  paid 
a  person  in  position  to  know,  for  the  addresses  of  all  let 
ters  from  the  paper's  office  to  persons  in  this  city.  One 
man's  name  was  frequently  repeated.  We  got  a  specimen 
of  his  handwriting  and  compared  it  with  the  sheet  of  man 
uscript;  the  chirography  was  identical. 

"A  brief  examination  of  the  new  situation  convinced 
me  that  the  writer  did  not  act  independently;  he  was  a 
young  man  not  long  in  the  city  and  could  not  have  known 
the  facts  he  wrote  of  nor  have  obtained  them  on  his  own 
account  without  arousing  suspicion.  He  was  being  used 
by  another  party — by  some  one  having  confidential  rela 
tions  or  connections  with  certain  families,  Col.  Montjoy's 
included.  I  then  began  to  suspect  the  guilty  party. 

"The  situation  was  now  exceedingly  delicate  and  I 
called  into  consultation  Mr.  Dabney,  one  of  our  shrewdest 
young  lawyers,  and  one,  by  the  way,  Mr.  Morgan,  I  will 
urge  upon  you  to  employ  in  this  defense;  in  fact,  you 
will  find  no  other  necessary,  but  by  all  means  hold  to  him. 
The  truth  is,"  he  added,  "I  have  already  retained  him  for 
you,  but  that  does  not  necessarily  bind  you." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Edward.    *'We  will  retain  him." 

"Very  good.  Now  we  wanted  this  young  man's  infor 
mation  and  we  did  not  wish  the  man  who  used  him  to 
know  that  anything  was  being  done  or  had  been  done, 
and  last  week,  after  careful  consultation,  I  acted.  I  called 
in  this  young  fellow  and  appointed  him  agent  at  an  im 
portant  place  upon  our  road,  but  remote,  making  his  sal 
ary  a  good  one.  He  jumped  at  the  chance  and  I  did  not 
give  him  an  hour's  time  to  get  ready.  He  was  to  go  upon 
trial,  and  he  went.  I  let  him  enjoy  the  sensation  of  pros 
perity  for  a  week  before  exploding  my  mine.  Last  night 
I  went  down  and  called  on  him  with  our  lawyer.  We 
took  him  to  the  hotel,  locked  the  door  and  terrorized  him 
into  a  confession,  first  giving  him  assurance  that  no  harm 
should  come  to  him  and  that  his  position  would  not  be 
affected.  He  gave  away  the  whole  plot  and  conspiracy. 

"The  man  we  want  is  Amos  Royson !" 

The  old  general  was  out  of  his  chair  and  jubilant.  He 
was  recalled  to  the  subject  by  the  face  of  the  speaker,  now 
white  and  cold,  fixed  upon  him. 


WAR  TO  THE  KNIFE.  287 

"I  did  not  have  evidence  enough  to  convict  him  of  con 
spiracy,  nor  would  the  evidence  help  Mr.  Morgan's  case, 
standing  alone  as  it  did.  The  single  witness,  and  he  in 
my  employ  then,  could  not  have  convicted,  although  he 
might  have  ruined,  Royson.  I  am  now  working  upon  the 
murder  case.  I  came  to  the  city  at  daylight  and  had  just 
arrived  home  when  your  note  reached  me.  My  intention 
was  to  go  straight  to  Royson's  office  and  give  him  an  op 
portunity  of  writing  out  his  acknowledgment  of  his  in 
famy  and  a  retraction.  If  he  had  refused  I  would  have 
killed  him  as  surely  as  there  is  a  God  in  heaven." 

Edward  held  out  his  hand  silently  and  the  men  under 
stood  each  other. 

"Now,"  continued  Barksdale,  "the  situation  has 
changed.  There  is  evidence  enough  to  convict  Royson  of 
conspiracy,  perhaps.  We  must  consult  Dabney,  but  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  our  course  will  be  to  go  to  trial 
ourselves  and  spring  the  mine  without  having  aroused 
suspicion.  When  Slippery  Dick  goes  upon  the  stand  he 
must  find  Royson  confident  and  in  my  opinion  he  will 
convict  himself  in  open  court,  if  we  can  get  him  there. 
The  chances  are  he  will  be  present.  The  case  will  attract 
a  great  crowd.  He  would  naturally  come.  But  we  will 
take  no  chances ;  he  shall  come ! 

"Just  one  thing  more  now;  you  perceive  the  import 
ance,  the  vital  importance,  of  secrecy  as  to  your  prisoner; 
under  no  consideration  must  his  presence  here  be  known 
outside.  To  insure  this  it  seems  necessary  to  take  one 
trusty  man  into  our  employ.  Have  you  considered  how 
we  would  be  involved  if  Mr.  Morgan  should  be  arrested?" 

"But  he  will  not  be.    Sheriff " 

"You  forget  Royson.  He  is  merciless  and  alert.  If 
he  discovers  Mr.  Morgan's  presence  in  this  community  he 
will  force  an  arrest.  The  sheriff  will  do  all  in  his  power 
for  us,  but  he  is  an  officer  under  oath,  and  with  an  eye, 
of  course,  to  re-election.  I  would  forestall  this;  I  would 
let  the  man  who  comes  to  guard  Dick  guard  Mr.  Morgan 
also.  In  other  words,  let  him  go  under  arrest  and  accept 
a  guard  in  his  own  house.  The  sheriff  can  act  in  this  upon 
his  own  discretion,  but  the  arrest  should  be  made."  Ed 
ward  and  the  general  were  for  a  moment  silent. 


288  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  former.  "Let  the  arrest  be 
made."  Barksdale  took  his  departure. 

The  butler  appeared  and  was  summarily  discharged 
for  having  abandoned  Virdow  during  the  night. 

And  then  came  the  deputy,  a  quiet,  confident  man  of 
few  words,  who  served  the  warrant  upon  Edward,  and 
then,  proceeding  with  his  prisoner  to  the  smoke-house, 
put  shackles  upon  Slippery  Dick,  and  supplemented  them 
with  handcuffs. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
PREPARING  THE  MINE. 

This  time  the  coroner  was  summoned.  He  came,  ex 
amined  the  body  of  Gerald,  heard  Virdow's  statement  and 
concluded  that  he  could  not  hold  an  inquest  without  sub 
jecting  himself  to  unpleasant  criticism  and  giving  candi 
dates  for  his  office  something  to  take  hold  of. 

The  funeral  was  very  quiet.  Col.  Montjoy,  Mrs.  Mont- 
joy  and  Mary  came  in  the  old  family  carriage  and  the 
general  on  horseback. 

The  little  group  stood  around  the  open  coffin  and  gazed 
tor  the  last  time  upon  the  pale,  chaste  face.  The  general 
could  not  endure  more  than  the  one  glance.  As  it  lay 
exposed  to  him,  it  was  the  perfect  imagje  of  a  face  that  had 
never  dimmed  in  his  memory.  Mary's  tears  fell  silently 
as  she  laid  her  little  cross  of  white  autumn  rosebuds  upon 
the  silent  breast  and  turned  away.  Edward  was  waiting 
for  her;  she  took  his  arm  and  went  upon  the  portico. 

"It  is  a  sad  blow  to  you,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said. 

"It  removes  the  only  claim  upon  me,"  was  his  answer. 
"When  all  is  over  and  this  trial  ended,  I  shall  very  likely 
return  to  Europe  for  good!"  They  were  silent  for  a 
while.  "I  came  here  full  of  hope,"  he  continued;  "I  have 
met  distrust,  accusation,  assaults  upon  my  character  and 
life,  the  loss  of  friends,  disappointments  and  now  am  ac 
cused  of  murder  and  must  undergo  a  public  trial.  It  is 
enough  to  satisfy  most  men  with — the  south." 


PREPARING  THE  MINE.  2S9 

"And  do  you  count  your  real  friends  as  nothing?' 

"My  real  friends  are  few,  but  they  count  for  much," 
he  said,  earnestly;  "it  will  be  hard  to  part  with  them — 
with  you.  But  fate  has  laid  an  iron  hand  upon  me.  I 
must  go."  He  found  her  looking  at  him  with  something 
of  wonder  upon  her  face. 

"You  know  best,"  she  said,  quietly.  There  was  some 
thing  in  her  manner  that  reminded  him  of  the  calm  dig 
nity  of  her  father. 

"You  do  not  understand  me,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "and 
I  cannot  explain,  and  yet  I  will  go  this  far.  My  parents 
have  left  me  a  mystery  to  unfathom;  until  I  have  solved 
it  I  will  not  come  back,  I  cannot  come  back."  He  took 
her  hand  in  both  of  his.  "It  is  this  that  restrains  me; 
you  have  been  a  true  friend ;  it  ^grieves  me  that  I  cannot 
share  my  troubles  with  you  and*  ask  your  woman's  judg 
ment,  but  I  cannot — I  cannot!  I  only  ask  that  you  keep 
me  always  in  your  memory,  as  you  will  always  be  the 
brightest  spot  in  mine."  She  was  now  pale  and  deeply 
affected  by  his  tone  and  manner. 

"You  cannot  tell  me,  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"Not  even  you,  the  woman  I  love;  the  only  woman  I 
have  ever  loved.  Ah,  what  have  I  said?"  She  had  with 
drawn  her  hand  and  was  looking  away.  "Forgive  me; 
I  did  not  know  what  I  was  saying.  I,  a  man  under  in 
dictment  for  murder,  a  possible  felon,  an  unknown !" 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him  fearlessly. 

"You  are  right.  You  can  rely  upon  friendship,  but 
under  the  circumstances  nothing  can  justify  you  in  speak 
ing  of  love  to  a  woman — you  do  not  trust." 

"Do  not  trust!  You  cannot  mean  that!"  She  had 
turned  away  proudly  and  would  have  left  him. 

"I  have  seen  so  little  of  women,"  he  said.  "Let  that  be 
my  excuse.  I  would  trust  you  with  my  life,  my  honor, 
my  happiness — but  I  will  not  burden  you  with  my  trouble. 
I  have  everything  to  offer  you — but  a  name.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  have  been  given  a  clear  title  to  everything  that 
a  man  needed  except  a  name.  I  have  feared  to  tell  you ;  I 
have  looked  to  see  you  turn  away  in  suspicion  and  dis 
trust — in  horror.  I  could  not.  But  anything,  even  that, 
is  better  than  reproach  and  wrong  judging. 
19 


290  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

"I  tell  you  now  that  I  love  you  as  no  woman  was  ever 
loved  before;  that  I  have  loved  you  since  you  first  came 
into  my  life,  and  that  though  we  be  parted  by  half  a 
world  of  space,  and  through  all  eternity,  I  still  will  love 
you.  But  I  will  never,  so  help  me  heaven,  ask  the  woman 
I  love  to  share  an  unknown's  lot!  You  have  my  reasons 
now;  it  is  because  I  do  love  you  that  I  go  away."  He 
spoke  the  words  passionately.  And  then  he  found  her 
standing  close  to  his  side. 

"And  I,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face  through 
tearful  but  smiling  eyes,  ''do  not  care  anything  for  your 
name  or  your  doubts,  and  I  tell  you,  Edward  Morgan, 
that  you  shall  not  go  away ;  you  shall  not  leave  me."  He 
caught  his  breath  and  stood  looking  into  her  brave  face. 

"But  your  family — it  is  proud " 

"It  shall  suffer  nothing  in  pride.  We  will  work  out  this 
little  mystery  together."  She  extended  her  hand  and,  tak 
ing  it,  he  took  her  also.  She  drew  back,  shaking  her  head 
reproachfully. 

"I  did  not  mean  that." 

He  was  about  to  reply,  but  at  that  moment  a  scene  was 
presented  that  filled  them  both  with  sudden  shame.  How 
true  it  is  that  in  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death. 

The  hearse  had  paused  at  the  gate.  Silently  they  en 
tered  the  house. 

He  led  her  back  to  the  side  of  the  dead  man. 

"He  loved  you,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  will  speak  the 
truth  for  him."  Mary  bent  above  the  white  face  and  left 
a  kiss  upon  the  cold  brow. 

"He  was  your  friend,"  she  said,  fearing1  to  look  into  his 
eye. 

He  comprehended  and  was  silent. 

It  was  soon  over.  The  ritual  for  the  dead,  the  slow- 
journey  to  the  city  of  silence,  a  few  moments  about  the 
open  grave,  the  sound  of  dirt  falling  upon  the  coffin,  a 
1  -fayer — and  Gerald,  living  and  dead,  was  no  longer  a  part 
of  their  lives. 

The  Mont  joys  were  to  go  home  from  the  cemetery. 
Edward  said  farewell  to  them  separately  and  to  Mary 
last.  Strange  paradox,  this  human  life.  He  came  from 
that  new-made  grave  almost  happy. 


PREPARING  THE  MINE.  291 

The  time  for  action  was  approaching  rapidly.  He 
went  with  Dabney  and  the  general  to  see  Slippery  Dick 
for  the  last  time  before  the  trial.  There  was  now  but  one 
serious  doubt  that  suggested  itself.  They  took  the  man 
at  night  to  the  grave  of  Rita  and  made  him  go  over  every 
detail  of  his  experience  there.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
scene  he  began  with  the  incident  of  the  voodoo's  "conjure 
bag"  and  in  reply  to  queries  showed  where  it  had  been 
inserted  in  the  cedar.  Edward  took  his  knife  and  began 
to  work  at  the  plug,  but  this  action  plunged  Dick  into 
such  terror  that  Dabney  cautioned  Edward  in  a  low  voice 
to  desist. 

"Dick,"  said  the  young  man  finally,  with  sudden  de 
cision,  "if  you  fail  us  in  this  matter  not  only  will  I  remove 
that  plug  but  I  will  put  you  in  jail  and  touch  you  with 
the  bag."  Dick  was  at  once  voluble  with  promises.  Ed 
ward,  his  memory  stirred  by  the  incident,  was  searching 
his  pockets.  He  had  carried  the  little  charm  obtained 
for  him  by  Mary  because  of  the  tender  memories  of  the 
night  before  their  journey  abroad.  He  drew  it  out  now 
and  held  it  up.  Dick  had  not  forgotten  it ;  he  drew  back, 
begging  piteously.  Dabney  was  greatly  interested. 

"That  little  charm  has  proved  to  be  your  protector,  Mr. 
Morgan,"  he  said  aloud  for  the  negro's  benefit.  "You 
have  not  been  in  any  danger.  Neither  Dick  nor  any  one 
else  could  have  harmed  you.  You  should  have  told  me 
before.  See  how  it  has  worked.  The  woman  who  gave 
you  the  bag  came  to  you  in  the  night  out  on  the  ocean 
and  showed  you  the  face  of  this  man ;  you  knew  him  even 
in  the  night,  although  he  had  never  before  met  you  nor 
you  him." 

A  sound  like  the  hiss  of  a  snake  came  from  the  negro ; 
he  had  never  been  able  to  guess  why  this  stranger  had 
known  him  so  quickly.  He  now  gazed  upon  his  captor 
with  mingled  fear  and  awe. 

"Befo'  Gawd,  boss,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  goin'  back  on  you, 
boss!" 

"Going  back  on  him!"  said  Dabney,  laughing.  "I 
should  think  not.  I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Morgan  had 
you  conjured.  Let  us  return;  Dick  cannot  escape  that 
woman  in  this  world  or  the  next.  Give  me  the  little  bag, 


2W  SONS   AND  FATHERS. 

Mr.  Morgan — no,  keep  it  yourself.  As  long  as  you  have 
it  you  are  safe." 

Edward  was  a  prisoner,  but  in  name  only.  Barksdale 
had  not  come  again,  for  more  reasons  than  one,  the  main 
reason  being  extra  precaution  on  account  of  the  watchful 
and  suspicious  Royson.  But  he  acted  quietly  upon  the 
public  mind.  The  day  following  the  interview  he  caused 
to  be  inserted  in  the  morning  paper  an  announcement  of 
Edward's  return  and  arrest,  and  the  additional  fact  that 
although  his  business  in  Paris  had  not  been  finished,  he 
had  left  upon  the  first  steamer  sailing  from  Havre.  At 
the  club,  he  was  outspoken  in  his  denunciation  of  the 
newspaper  attacks  and  his  confidence  in  the  innocence  of 
the  man.  There  was  no  hint  in  any  quarter  that  it  had 
been  suspected  that  Rita  Morgan  was  really  not  mur 
dered.  It  was  generally  understood  that  the  defense 
would  rely  upon  the  state's  inability  to  make  out  a  case. 

But  Edward  did  not  suffer  greatly  from  loneliness. 
The  day  after  the  funeral  Mrs.  Montjoy  and  Mary,  to 
gether  with  the  colonel,  paid  a  formal  call  and  stayed  for 
some  hours;  and  the  general  came  frequently  with  Dab- 
ney  and  Eldridge,  who  had  also  been  employed,  and  con 
sulted  over  their  plans  for  the  defense.  Arrangements 
had  been  made  with  the  solicitor  for  a  speedy  trial  and 
the  momentous  day  dawned. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 
SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG, 

The  prominence  of  the  accused  and  of  his  friends, 
added  to  the  sensational  publication,  made  the  case  one 
of  immense  interest.  The  court  house  was  crowded  to 
its  utmost  and  room  had  to  be  made  within  the  bar  for 
prominent  citizens.  There  was  a  "color-line"  feature  in 
the  murder,  and  the  gallery  was  packed  with  curious 
black  faces.  Edward,  quiet  and  self-contained,  sat  by  his 
lawyers,  and  near  him  was  the  old  general  and  Col,  Mont- 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG.  293 

joy.  Slightly  in  the  rear  was  Barksdale,  calm  and  ob 
servant.  The  state  had  subpoenaed  Royson  as  a  witness, 
and,  smilingly  indifferent,  he  occupied  a  seat  as  a  member 
of  the  bar,  inside  the  rail.  The  case  was  called  at  last. 

"The  state  versus  Edward  Morgan,  murder.  Mr.  So 
licitor,  what  do  you  say  for  the  state?"  asked  the  court. 

"Ready." 

"What  do  you  say  for  the  defense,  gentlemen?" 

"Ready." 

"Mr.  Clerk,  call  the  jury."  The  panel  was  called  and 
sworn.  The  work  of  striking  the  jury  then  proceeded. 
Eldridge  and  Dabney  were  clever  practitioners  and  did 
not  neglect  any  precaution.  The  jury  list  was  scanned 
and  undesirable  names  eliminated  with  as  much  care  as 
if  the  prisoner  had  small  chance  of  escape. 

This  proceeding  covered  an  hour,  but  at  last  the  panel 
was  complete  and  sworn.  The  defendant  was  so  little 
known  that  this  was  a  simple  matter, 

The  witnesses  for  the  state  were  then  called  and  sworn. 
They  consisted  of  the  coroner,  the  physician  who  had  ex 
amined  the  wound,  and  others,  including  Gen.  Evan,  Vir- 
dow  and  Royson.  Gen.  Evan  and  Virdow  had  also  been 
summoned  by  the  defense. 

As  Royson  took  the  oath  it  was  observed  that  he  was 
slightly  pale  and  embarrassed,  but  this  was  attributed  to 
the  fact  of  his  recent  conflict  and  the  eager  state  of  the 
great  crowd.  No  man  in  the  room  kept  such  watch  upon 
him  as  Barksdale;  never  once  did  he  take  his  eyes  from 
the  scarred  face.  Witnesses  for  the  defense  were  then 
called — Gen.  Evan  and  Virdow.  They  had  taken  the 
oath.  The  defense  demanded  that  witnesses  for  the  state 
be  sent  out  of  the  room  until  called.  As  Royson  was 
rising  to  comply  with  the  requirement  common  in  such 
cases  Dabney  stood  up  and  said: 

"Before  Mr.  Royson  goes  out,  may  it  please  your 
honor,  I  would  respectfully  ask  of  the  solicitor  what  it  is 
he  expects  to  prove  by  him?" 

"We  expect  to  prove,  your  honor,  that  Mr.  Royson 
wrote  a  certain  letter  which  charged  the  prisoner  with 
being  a  man  of  mixed  blood,  and  that  Rita  Morgan,  the 
woman  who  was  killed,  was  the  woman  in  question,  and 


294  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

the  only  authority;  an  important  point  in  the  case.  Mr. 
Roy  son,  I  should  say,  is  here  by  subpoena  only  and  occu 
pying  a  very  delicate  situation,  since  he  was  afterward, 
by  public  report,  engaged  in  a  conflict  with  the  prisoner, 
growing  out  of  the  publication  of  that  letter." 

"The  solicitor  is  unnecessarily  prolix,  your  honor.  I 
asked  the  question  to  withdraw  our  demand  in  his  case 
as  a  matter  of  courtesy  to  a  member  of  the  bar."  Royson 
bowed  and  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  now  ask,"  said  Dabney,  "a  like  courtesy  in  behalf  of 
Gen.  Evan  and  Prof.  Virdow,  witnesses  for  both  state  and 
defense."  This  was  readily  granted. 

There  was  no  demurrer  to  the  indictment.  The  solici 
tor  advanced  before  the  jury  and  read  the  document, 
word  for  word.  "We  expect  to  prove,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  that  the  dead  woman,  named  in  this  indictment, 
was  for  many  years  housekeeper  for  the  late  John  Mor 
gan,  and  more  recently  for  the  defendant  in  this  case, 
Edward  Morgan ;  that  she  resided  upon  the  premises  with 
him  and  his  cousin,  Gerald  Morgan;  that  on  a  certain 
night,  to  wit,  the  date  named  in  the  indictment,  she  was 
murdered  by  being  struck  in  the  head  with  some  blunt 
implement,  and  that  she  was  discovered  almost  imme 
diately  thereafter  by  a  witness ;  that  there  was  no  one  with 
the  deceased  at  the  time  of  her  death  but  the  defendant, 
Edward  Morgan,  and  that  he,  only,  had  a  motive  for  her 
death — namely,  the  suppression  of  certain  facts,  or  cer 
tain  publicly  alleged  facts,  which  she  alone  possessed; 
that  after  her  death,  which  was  sudden,  he  failed  to  notify 
the  coroner,  but  permitted  the  body  to  be  buried  without 
examination.  And  upon  these  facts,  we  say,  the  defend 
ant  is  guilty  of  murder.  The  coroner  will  please  take 
the  stand." 

The  officer  named  appeared  and  gave  in  his  testimony. 
He  had,  some  days  after  the  burial  of  the  woman,  Rita 
Morgan,  received  a  hint  from  an  anonymous  letter  that 
foul  play  was  suspected  in  the  case,  and  acting  under  ad 
vice,  had  caused  the  body  to  be  disinterred  and  he  had 
held  an  inquest  upon  it,  with  the  result  as  expressed  in 
the  verdict,  which  he  proceeded  to  read,  and  which  was 
then  introduced  as  evidence.  The  witness  was  turned 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG.  295 

over  to  the  defense;  they  consulted  and  announced  "no 
questions." 

The  next  witness  was  the  physician  who  examined  the 
wound.  He  testified  to  the  presence  of  a  wound  in  the 
back  of  the  head  that  crushed  the  skull  and  was  sufficient 
to  have  caused  death.  Dabney  asked  of  this  witness  if 
there  was  much  of  a  wound  in  the  scalp,  and  the  reply 
was  "No." 

"Was  there  any  blood  visible?" 

"No."  The  defense  had  no  other  questions  for  this  offi 
cer,  but  announced  that  they  reserved  the  right  to  recall 
him  if  the  case  required  it. 

The  next  witness  was  Virdow.  He  had  seen  the  body 
after  death,  but  had  not  examined  the  back  of  the  head ; 
had  seen  a  small  cut  upon  the  temple,  which  the  defend 
ant  had  explained  to  him  was  made  by  her  falling  against 
the  glass  in  the  conservatory.  There  was  a  pane  broken 
at  the  point  indicated. 

And  then  Evan  was  put  up. 

"Gen.  Evan,"  asked  the  solicitor,  "where  were  you  upon 
the  night  that  Rita  Morgan  died?" 

"At  the  residence  of  Edward  Morgan,  sir." 

"Where  were  you  when  you  first  discovered  the  death 
of  Rita  Morgan?" 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  at  the  time  indicated,  I  was 
standing  in  the  glass-room  occupied  by  the  late  Gerald 
Morgan,  in  the  residence  of  the  defendant  in  this  county 

"And  state?"  interrupted  the  solicitor. 
"And  state.  I  was  standing  by  the  bedside  of  Gerald 
Morgan,  who  was  ill.  I  was  deeply  absorbed  in  thought 
and  perfectly  oblivious  to  my  surroundings,  I  suppose.  I 
am  certain  that  Edward  Morgan  was  in  the  room  with 
me.  I  was  aroused  by  hearing  him  cry  out  and  then  dis 
covered  that  the  door  leading  into  the  shrubbery  was 
open.  I  ran  out  and  found  him  near  the  head  of  the 
woman." 

"Did  you  notice  any  cuts  or  signs  of  blood?" 

"I  noticed  only  a  slight  cut  upon  the  forehead." 

"Did  you  examine  her  for  other  wounds?" 

"I  did  not.    I  understood  then  that  she  had,  in  a  fit  of 


236  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

some  kind,  fallen  against  the  glass,  and  that  seeing  her 
from  within  Mr.  Morgan  had  run  out  and  picked  her  up." 

"Did  you  hear  any  sound  of  breaking  glass?" 

"I  think  I  did.  I  cannot  swear  to  it;  my  mind  was 
completely  absorbed  at  that  time.  There  was  a  broken 
glass  at  the  place  pointed  out  by  him." 

"That  night — pointed  out  that  night?" 

"No.    I  believe  some  days  later." 

"Did  you  hear  voices?" 

"I  heard  some  one  say  They  lied!'  and  then  I  heard 
Edward  Morgan  cry  aloud.  Going  out  I  found  him  by 
the  dead  body  of  the  woman." 

The  defense  cross-questioned. 

"You  do  not  swear,  Gen.  Evan,  that  Mr.  Morgan  was 
not  in  the  room  at  the  time  the  woman  Rita  was  seized 
with  sudden  illness?" 

"I  do  not.    It  was  my  belief  then,  and  is  now " 

"Stop,"  said  the  solicitor. 

"Confine  yourself  to  facts  only,"  said  the  court. 

"You  are  well  acquainted  with  Mr.  Morgan?" 

"As  well  as  possible  in  the  short  time  I  have  known 
him." 

"What  is  his  character?" 

"He  is  a  gentleman  and  as  brave  as  any  man  I  ever 
saw  on  the  field  of  battle."  There  was  slight  applause  as 
the  general  came  down,  but  it  was  for  the  general  himself. 

"Mr.  Royson  will  please  take  the  stand,"  said  the  so 
licitor.  "You  were  the  author  of  the  letter  concerning  the 
alleged  parentage  of  Edward  Morgan,  which  was  pub 
lished  in  an  extra  in  this  city  a  few  weeks  since?"  Roy- 
son  bowed  slightly. 

"From  whom  did  you  get  your  information?" 

"From  Rita  Morgan,"  he  said,  calmly.  There  was  «. 
breathless  silence  for  a  moment  and  then  an  angry  mur 
mur  in  the  great  audience.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
Edward,  who  had  grown  pale,  but  he  maintained  his 
calmness.  The  astounding  statement  had  filled  him  with 
a  sickening  horror.  Not  until  that  moment  did  he  fully 
comprehend  the  extent  of  the  enmity  cherished  against 
him  by  the  witness.  On  the  face  of  Barksdale  descended 
a  look  as  black  as  night.  He  did  not,  however,  move  a 
muscle, 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTO  A  WRONG.  297 

"You  say  that  Rita  Morgan  told  you — when?" 

"About  a  week  previous.  She  declared  that  her  own 
son  had  secured  his  rights  at  last.  I  had  been  consulted 
by  her  soon  after  John  Morgan's  death,  looking  to  the 
protection  of  those  rights,  she  being  of  the  opinion  that 
Gerald  Morgan  would  inherit.  When  it  was  found  that 
this  defendant  here  had  inherited  she  called,  paid  my  fee 
and  made  the  statement  as  given." 

"Why  did  you  fight  a  duel  with  the  defendant,  then — 
knowing,  or  believing  you  knew,  his  base  parentage?" 

"I  was  forced  to  do  so  by  the  fact  that  I  was  challenged 
direct  and  no  informant  demanded;  and  by  the  fact  that 
my  witness  was  dead;  also  by  the  further  fact  that  while 
my  friends  were  discussing  my  situation,  Gen.  Evan,  act 
ing  under  a  mistaken  idea,  vouched  for  him." 

These  ingenuous  answers  took  away  the  general's 
breath.  He  had  never  anticipated  such  plausible  lies. 
Even  Dabney  was  for  the  moment  bewildered.  Edward 
could  scarcely  restrain  .his  emotion  and  horror.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  Rita  was  not  dead  when  the  challenge  was 
accepted.  Royson  had  lied  under  oath! 

"The  witness  is  with  you,"  said  the  solicitor,  with  just 
a  tinge  of  sarcasm  in  his  tones. 

"Were  the  statements  of  Rita  Morgan  in  writing?" 
asked  Dabney. 

"No." 

"Then,  may  it  please  your  honor,  I  move  to  rule  them 
out."  A  debate  followed.  The  statements  were  ruled 
out.  Royson  was  suffered  to  descend,  subject  to  recall. 

"The  state  closes,"  said  the  prosecuting  officer. 

Then  came  the  sensation  of  the  day. 

The  crowd  and  the  bar  were  wondering  what  the  de 
fense  would  attempt  with  no  witnesses,  when  Dabney 
arose. 

"May  it  please  your  honor,  we  have  now  a  witness,  not 
here  when  the  case  was  called,  whom  we  desire  to  bring 
in-  and  have  sworn.  We  will  decide  about  introducing  him 
within  a  few  moments  and  there  is  one  other  witness  tel 
egraphed  for  who  has  just  reached  the  city.  We  ask 
leave  to  introduce  him  upon  his  arrival."  And  then 
turning  to  the  sheriff,  he  whispered  directions.  The  sher- 


298  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

iff  went  to  the  hall  and  returned  with  a  negro.  Royson 
was  engaged  in  conversation,  leaning  over  the  back  of 
his  chair  and  with  his  face  averted.  The  witness  was 
sworn  and  took  the  stand  facing  the  crowd.  A  murmur 
of  surprise  ran  about  the  room,  for  there,  looking  out 
upon  them,  was  the  well-known  face  of  Slippery  Dick. 
The  next  proceedings  were  irregular  but  dramatic.  Lit 
tle  Dabney  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  shouted 
in  a  shrill  voice: 

"Look  at  that  man,  gentlemen  of  the  jury."  At  the 
same  time  his  finger  was  pointed  at  Royson.  All  eyes 
were  at  once  fixed  upon  that  individual.  His  face  was  as 
chalk  and  the  red  scar  across  the  nose  flamed  as  so  much 
fiery  paint.  His  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  witness  with 
such  an  expression  of  fear  and  horror  that  those  near  him 
shuddered  and  drew  back  slightly.  And  as  he  gazed  his 
left  hand  fingered  at  his  collar  and  presently,  with  sudden 
haste,  tore  away  the  black  cravat.  Then  he  made  an  ef 
fort  to  leave,  but  Barksdale  arose  and  literally  hurled  him 
back  in  his  chair.  The  court  rapped  loudly. 

"I  fine  you  $50,  Mr.  Barksdale.    Take  your  seat!" 

Dick,  unabashed,  met  that  wild,  pleading,  threatening, 
futile  gaze  of  Royson,  who  was  now  but  half-conscious 
of  the  proceedings. 

"Tell  the  jury,  do  you  know  this  man?"  shouted  the 
shrill  voice  again,  the  finger  still  pointing  to  Royson. 

"Yes,  sah;  dat's  Mr.  Royson." 

"Were  you  ever  hired  by  him?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"When— the  last  time?" 

"  'Bout  three  weeks  ago." 

"To  do  what?" 

"Open  'er  grave." 

"Whose  grave?" 

"Rita  Morgan's." 

"And  what  else?" 

There  was  intense  silence ;  Dick  twisted  uneasily. 

"And  what  else?"  repeated  Dabney. 

"Knock  her  in  de  head." 

"Did  you  do  it?" 

"Yes,  sah," 


SLIPPERY  DICK  RIGHTS  A  WRONG.  299 

"Where  did  you  knock  her  in  the  head?" 

"In  de  back  of  de  head." 

"Hard?" 

"Hard  enough  to  break  her  skull." 

"Did  you  see  Mr.  Gerald  Morgan  that  night?" 

"Yes,  sah." 

"Where?" 

"Downtown,  jus'  fo'  I  tole  Mr.  Royson  'all  right.1 " 

"Where  did  you  next  see  him?" 

"After  he  was  killed  by  de  lightnin'." 

"The  witness  is  with  you,"  said  Dabney,  the  words  ring 
ing  out  in  triumph.  He  faced  the  solicitor  defiantly.  His 
questions  had  followed  each  other  with  astounding  ra 
pidity  and  the  effect  on  every  hearer  was  profound.  The 
solicitor  was  silent;  his  eyes  were  upon  Royson.  Some 
one  had  handed  the  latter  a  glass  of  water,  which  he  was 
trying  to  drink. 

"I  have  no  questions,"  said  the  solicitor,  slowly  and 
gravely. 

"You  can  come  down,  Dick."  The  negro  stepped 
down  and  started  out.  He  passed  close  to  Royson,  who 
was  standing  in  the  edge  of  the  middle  aisle.  Their  eyes 
met.  It  may  have  been  pure  devilishness  or  simply  ner 
vous  facial  contortion,  but  at  that  moment  the  negro's 
face  took  on  a  grin.  Whatever  the  cause,  the  effect  was 
fatal  to  him.  The  approach  of  the  negro  had  acted  upon 
the  wretched  Royson  like  a  maddening  stimulant.  At 
sight  of  that  diabolical  countenance,  he  seized  him  with 
his  left  hand  and  stabbed  him  frantically  a  dozen  times 
before  he  could  be  prevented.  With  a  moan  of  anguish 
the  negro  fell  dead,  bathing  the  scene  in  blood. 

A  great  cry  went  up  from  the  spectators  and  not  until 
the  struggling  lawyer  and  the  bloody  corpse  had  been 
dragged  out  did  the  court  succeed  in  enforcing  order. 

The  solicitor  went  up  and  whispered  to  the  judge,  who 
nodded  immediately,  but  before  he  announced  that  a  ver 
dict  of  acquittal  would  be  allowed,  the  defendant's  attor 
neys  drew  him  aside,  and  made  an  appeal  to  him  to  let 
them  proceed,  as  a  mere  acquittal  was  not  full  justice  to 
the  accused. 

Then  the  defense  put  up  the  ex-reporter  and  by  him 


3ftO  SONS   AND   FATHERS. 

proved  the  procurement  by  Royson  of  the  libels  and  his 
authorship  and  gave  his  connection  with  the  affair  from 
the  beginning,  which  was  the  reception  of  an  anonymous 
card  informing  him  that  Royson  held  such  information. 

Gen.  Evan  then  testified  that  Rita  died  while  Royson's 
second  was  standing  at  the  front  door  at  Ilexhurst,  with 
Royson's  note  in  his  pocket. 

The  jury  was  briefly  charged  by  the  court  and  without 
leaving  the  box  returned  a  verdict  of  not  guilty.  The 
tragedy  and  dramatic  denouement  had  wrought  the  au 
dience  to  the  highest  pitch  of  excitement.  The  revulsion 
of  feeling  was  indicated  by  one  immense  cheer,  and  Ed- 
vvard  found  himself  surrounded  by  more  friends  than  he 
thought  he  had  acquaintances,  who  shook  his  hand  and 
congratulated  him.  Barksdale  stalked  through  the 
crowd  and  laid  $50  upon  the  clerk's  desk.  Smiling  up  at 
the  court  he  said : 

"Will  your  honor  not  make  it  a  thousand?  It  is  too 
cheap!" 

But  that  good-natured  dignitary  replied: 

"The  fine  is  remitted.    You  couldn't  help  it." 


CHAPTER  L. 
A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS. 

Gambia  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  sudden  departure 
of  the  Montjoys.  She  shut  herself  up  and  refused  all  vis 
itors.  Was  the  great-hearted  yet  stern  Gambia  ill  or  dis 
tressed?  The  maid  did  not  know. 

She  had  called  for  the  "Figaro,"  to  see  the  passenger 
list  of  the  steamer.  The  names  were  there;  the  steamer 
had  sailed.  And  then  as  she  sat  gazing  upon  the  sheet 
another  caught  her  attention  in  an  adjoining  column, 
"Gaspard  Levigne."  It  was  in  the  body  of  an  advertise 
ment,  which  read: 

"Reward — A  liberal  reward  will  be  paid  for  particulars 
of  the  death  of  Gaspard  Levigne,  which  occurred  recently 
in  Paris.  Additional  reward  will  be  paid  for  the  address 


A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS.  801 

of  the  present  owner  of  the  Stradivarius  violin  lately 
owned  by  the  said  Gaspard  Levigne  and  the  undersigned 
will  buy  said  violin  at  full  value,  if  for  sale." 

Following  this  was  a  long  and  minute  description  of 
the  instrument.  The  advertisement  was  signed  by  Louis 
Levigne,  Breslau,  Silesia. 

Gambia  read  and  reread  this  notice  with  pale  face  and 
gave  herself  up  to  reflection.  She  threw  off  the  weight  of 
the  old  troubles  which  had  swarmed  over  her  again  and 
prepared  for  action.  Three  hours  later  she  was  on  her 
way  to  Berlin;  the  next  day  found  her  in  Breslau.  A  few 
moments  later  and  she  was  entering  the  house  of  the  ad 
vertiser. 

In  a  dark,  old-fashioned  living-room,  a  slender,  gray- 
haired  man  came  forward  rather  suspiciously  to  meet  her. 
She  knew  his  face  despite  the  changes  of  nearly  thirty 
years;  he  was  the  only  brother  of  her  husband  and  one 
of  her  chief  persecutors  in  those  unhappy  days.  It  was 
not  strange  that  in  this  tall,  queenlike  woman,  trained  to 
face  great  audiences  without  embarrassment,  he  should 
fail  to  recognize  the  shy  and  lonely  little  American  who 
had  invaded  the  family  circle.  He  bowed,  unconsciously 
feeling  the  influence  of  her  fine  presence  and  command 
ing  eyes. 

"You,  I  suppose,  are  Louis  Levigne,  who  advertised 
recently  for  information  of  Gaspard  Levigne?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  madame;  my  brother  was  the  unfortunate  Gas 
pard.  We  think  him  dead.  Know  you  anything  of  him?" 

"I  knew  him  years  ago;  I  was  then  a  singer  and  he  was 
my  accompanist.  Recently  he  died."  The  face  of  the 
man  lighted  up  with  a  strange  gleam.  She  regarded  him 
curiously  and  continued:  "Died  poor  and  friendless." 

"Ah,  indeed!  He  should  have  communicated  with  us; 
he  was  not  poor  and  would  not  have  been  friendless." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know,  madame,  the  new  age  is  progressive.  Some 
lands  we  had  in  northern  Silesia,  worthless  for  200  years, 
have  developed  iron  and  a  company  has  purchased."  The 
woman  smiled  sadly. 

"Too  late,"  she  said,  "for  poor  Gaspard.  This  is  why 
you  have  advertised?" 


302  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Yes,  madame.  There  can  be  no  settlement  until  we 
have  proofs  of  Gaspard's  death." 

"You  are  the  only  heir  aside  from  Gaspard?" 

"Yes,  madame."  The  count  grew  restless  under  these 
questions,  but  circumstances  compelled  courtesy  to  this 
visitor. 

"Excuse  my  interest,  count,  but  Gaspard  was  my  friend 
and  I  knew  something  of  his  affairs.  Did  he  not  leave 
heirs?"  The  man  replied  with  gesture,  in  which  was 
mingled  every  shade  of  careless  contempt  that  could  be 
expressed. 

"There  was  a  woman — a  plaything  of  Gaspard's  call 
ing  herself  his  wife — but  they  parted  nearly  thirty  years 
ago.  He  humored  her  and  then  sent  her  back  where 
she  came  from — America,  I  believe/' 

"I  am  more  than  ever  interested,  count.  Gaspard  did 
not  impress  me  as  vicious." 

"Oh,  well,  follies  of  youth,  call  them.  Gaspard  was 
wild;  he  first  left  here  because  of  a  mock-marriage  esca 
pade;  when  two  years  after  he  came  back  with  this  little 
doll  we  supposed  it  was  another  case;  at  any  rate,  Gas 
pard  was  once  drunk  enough  to  boast  that  she  could 
never  prove  the  marriage."  Gambia  could  restrain  her 
self  only  with  desperate  efforts.  These  were  knife  blows. 

"Were  there  no  heirs?" 

"I  have  never  heard.  It  matters  little  here.  But, 
madame,  you  know  of  Gaspard's  death;  can  you  not 
give  me  the  facts  so  that  I  may  obtain  proofs?"  She 
looked  at  him  steadily. 

"I  saw  him  die." 

"Ah,  that  simplifies  it  all,"  said  the  count,  pleasantly. 
"Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  go  before  an  attesting 
officer  and  complete  the  proofs?  You  have  answered  the 
advertisement — do  I  insult  you  by  speaking  of  reward?" 
He  looked  critically  at  her  simple  but  elegant  attire  and 
hesitated. 

"No.  But  I  do  not  care  for  money.  I  will  furnish 
positive  proof  of  the  death  of  Gaspard  Levigne  for  the 
violin  mentioned  in  the  advertisement."  The  man  was 
now  much  astounded. 


A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS.  303 

"But,  madame,  it  is  an  heirloom;  that  is  why  I  have 
advertised  for  it.  I  have  not  got  it." 

"Then  get  it!  And  let  me  receive  it  direct  from  the 
hands  of  the  present  holder  or  I  will  not  furnish  the 
proofs."  Some  doubt  of  the  woman's  sanity  flashed  over 
the  count. 

"I  have  already  explained,  madame,  that  it  was  an 
heirloom — " 

"And  I  have  shown  you  that  I  do  not  consider  that  as 
important." 

"But  of  what  use  can  it  possibly  be  to  you?  There 
are  other  Cremonas  I  will  buy — " 

"I  want  this  one  because  it  is  the  violin  of  Gaspard 
Levigne,  and  he  was  my  husband." 

The  count  nearly  leaped  from  the  floor. 

"When  did  he  marry  you,  madame?" 

"That  is  a  long  story;  but  he  did;  we  were  bohemians 
in  Paris.  I  am  heir  to  his  interests  in  these  mines,  but 
I  care  little  for  that — very  little.  I  am  independent.  My 
husband's  violin  is  my  one  wish  now."  The  realization 
of  how  completely  he  had  been  trapped  did  not  add 
additional  courtesy  to  the  brusque  old  man. 

"You  married  him !  I  presume  you  ascertained  that  the 
American  wife  was  dead?" 

"You  have  informed  me  that  the  American  was  not 
his  wife." 

"But  she  was,  and  if  she  is  living  to-day  madame's 
claims  are  very  slender." 

"You  speak  positively!" 

"I  do.  I  saw  the  proofs.  We  would  not  have  given 
the  girl  any  recognition  without  them,  knowing  Gas- 
pard's  former  escapade." 

"Then,"  said  the  woman,  her  face  lighting  up  with  a 
sudden  joy,  and  growing  stern  again  instantly,  "then  you 
lied  just  now,  you  cowardly  hound!" 

"Madame!"  The  count  had  retreated  behind  a  chair 
and  looked  anxiously  at  the  bell,  but  she  was  in  the  way. 

"You  lied,  sir,  I  say.  I  am  the  wife,  and  now  the  widow, 
of  Gaspard  Levigne,  but  not  a  second  wife.  I  am  that 
'plaything,'  as  you  called  her,  the  American,  armed  now 
with  a  knowledge  of  my  rights  and  your  treachery.  You 


304  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

may  well  shiver  and  grow  pale,  sir;  I  am  no  longer  the 
trembling  child  you  terrified  with  brutality,  but  a  woman 
who  could  buy  your  family  with  its  mines  thrown  in, 
and  not  suffer  because  of  the  bad  investment.  From  this 
room,  upon  the  information  you  have  given,  I  go  to  put 
my  case  in  the  hands  of  lawyers  and  establish  my  claim. 
It  is  not  share  and  share  in  this  country;  my  husband 
was  the  first  born,  and  I  am  his  heir!" 

"My  God!" 

"It  is  too  late  to  call  upon  God;  He  is  on  my  side 
now!  I  came  to  you,  sir,  a  woman  to  be  loved,  not  a 
pauper.  My  father  was  more  than  a  prince  in  his  coun 
try.  His  slaves  were  numbered  by  the  hundreds,  and 
his  lands  would  have  sufficed  for  a  dozen  of  your  counts. 
I  was  crushed  and  my  life  was  ruined,  and  my  husband 
turned  against  me.  But  he  repented — he  repented. 
There  was  no  war  between  Gaspard  and  I  when  he  died." 
The  man  looked  on  and  believed  her. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  humbly,  "has  been  wronged.  For 
myself,  it  matters  little,  this  new  turn  of  affairs,  but  I 
have  others."  She  had  been  looking  beyond  him  into 
space. 

"And  yet,"  she  said,  "it  is  the  violin  I  would  have.  It 
was  the  violin  that  first  spoke  our  love;  it  is  a  part  of 
me;  I  would  give  my  fortune  to  possess  it  again."  He 
was  looking  anxiously  at  her,  not  comprehending  this 
passion,  but  hoping  much  from  it. 

"And  how  much  will  you  give?" 

"I  will  give  the  mines  and  release  all  claims  against 
you  and  your  father's  estate." 

"Alas,  madame,  I  can  give  you  the  name  of  the  holder 
of  that  violin  but  not  the  violin  itself.  You  can  make 
terms  with  him,  and  I  will  pay  whatever  price  is  de 
manded." 

"How  will  I  know  you  are  not  deceiving  me?" 

"Madame  is  harsh,  but  she  will  be  convinced  if  she 
knows  the  handwriting  of  her — husband." 

"It  is  agreed,"  she  said,  struggling  to  keep  down  her 
excitement.  Count  Levigne  reached  the  coveted  bell 
and  in  a  few  minutes  secured  a  notary,  who  drew  up  a 
formal  agreement  between  the  two  parties.  Gambia  then 


A  WOMAN'S  WIT  CONQUERS.  305 

gave  an  affidavit  setting  forth  the  death  of  Gaspard  La- 
vigne  in  proper  form  for  use  in  court..  Count  Levigne 
took  from  his  desk  an  envelope. 

"You  have  read  my  advertisement,  madame.  It  was 
based  on  this: 

"Count  L.  Lavigne,  Breslau:  When  you  receive  this 
I  will  be  dead.  Make  no  effort  to  trace  me;  it  will  be 
useless;  my  present  name  is  an  assumed  one.  We  have 
been  enemies  many  years,  but  everything  changes  in  the 
presence  of  death,  and  I  do  not  begrudge  you  the  pleas 
ure  of  knowing  that  your  brother  is  beyond  trouble  and 
want  forever  and  the  title  yours.  The  Cremona,  to  which 
I  have  clung  even  when  honor  was  gone,  I  have  given  to 
a  young  American  named  Morgan,  who  has  made  my 
life  happier  in  its  winter  than  it  was  in  its  summer. 

"Gaspard  Levigne." 

The  count  watched  the  reader  curiously  as  she  exam 
ined  the  letter.  Her  face  was  white,  but  her  hand  did 
not  tremble  as  she  handed  back  the  letter. 

"It  is  well,"  she  said.  "I  am  satisfied.  Good-morning, 
gentlemen." 

In  Paris,  Gambia's  mind  was  soon  made  up.  She  pri 
vately  arranged  for  an  indefinite  absence,  and  one  day  she 
disappeared.  It  was  the  sensation  of  the  hour;  the  news 
papers  got  hold  of  it,  and  all  Paris  wondered. 

There  had  always  been  a  mystery  in  the  life  of  Gambia. 
No  man  had  ever  invaded  it  beyond  the  day  when  she 
put  herself  in  the  hands  of  a  manager  and  laid  the  foun 
dation  for  her  world-wide  success  upon  the  lyric  stage. 

And  then  Paris  forgot;  and  only  the  circle  of  her 
friends  watched  and  waited. 

Meanwhile  the  swift  steamer  had  carried  Mrs.  Gaspard 
Levigne  across  the  Atlantic  and  she  had  begun  that  jour 
ney  into  the  southland,  once  the  dream  of  her  youth — 
the  going  back  to  father  and  to  friends ! 

The  swift  train  carried  her  by  towns  and  villages  gor 
geous  with  new  paint  and  through  cities  black  with  the 
smoke  of  factories.  The  negroes  about  the  stations  were 
not  of  the  old  life,  and  the  rushing,  curt  and  slangy  young 
20 


306  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

men  who  came  and  went  upon  the  train  belonged  to  a 
new  age. 

The  farms,  with  faded  and  dingy  houses,  poor  fences, 
and  uncared-for  fields  and  hedges,  swept  past  like  some 
bad  dream.  All  was  different;  not  thirty  years  but  a 
century  had  rolled  its  changes  over  the  land  since  her 
girlhood. 

And  then  comes  the  alighting.  Here  was  the  city, 
different  and  yet  the  same.  But  where  were  the  great 
family  carriage,  with  folding  steps  and  noble  bays,  the 
driver  in  livery,  the  footman  to  hold  the  door?  Where 
were  father  and  friends?  No  human  being  came  to  greet 
her. 

She  went  to  the  hotel,  locked  herself  in  her  room,  and 
then  Gambia  gave  way  for  the  first  time  in  a  generation 
to  tears. 

But  she  was  eminently  a  practical  woman.  She  had 
not  come  to  America  to  weep.  The  emotion  soon  passed. 
At  her  request  a  file  of  recent  papers  was  laid  before  her, 
and  she  went  through  them  carefully.  She  found  that 
which  she  had  not  looked  for 


CHAPTER  LI. 
DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY. 

It  was  the  morning  succeeding  the  trial,  one  of  those 
southern  days  that  the  late  fall  steals  from  summer  and 
tempts  the  birds  to  sing  in  the  woodlands.  Gen.  Evan 
had  borne  Virdow  and  Edward  in  triumph  to  the  Cedars 
and,  after  a  good  night's  sleep  and  a  restless  hour  fol 
lowing  breakfast,  Edward  had  ridden  over  to  the  hall, 
leaving  the  two  old  men  together.  Virdow  interested 
his  host  with  accurate  descriptions  of  the  great  battles 
between  the  Germans  and  the  French ;  and  Evan  in  turn 
gave  him  vivid  accounts  of  the  mighty  Virginia  struggles 
between  federals  and  confederates. 

When  they  finally  came  to  Edward  as  a  topic  the 


DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY.  307 

German  was  eloquent.  He  placed  him  beside  himself  in 
learning  and  ahead  of  all  amateurs  as  artist  and  musician. 

"Mr.  Morgan  agreed  with  me  in  his  estimate  of  Ed 
ward,"  Virdow  said.  "They  were  warm  friends.  Ed 
ward  reciprocated  the  affection  bestowed  upon  him;  in 
Europe  they  traveled  much — " 

"Of  what  Mr.  Morgan  do  you  speak?"  The  general 
was  puzzled. 

"The  elder,  Mr.  John  Morgan,  I  think.  But  what  am 
I  saying?  I  mean  Abingdon." 

"Abingdon?  I  do  not  know  him."  Virdow  reflected 
a  moment. 

"Abingdon  was  the  name  by  which  Edward  knew 
John  Morgan  in  Europe.  They  met  annually  and  were 
inseparable  companions." 

"John  Morgan — our  John  Morgan?" 

"Yes.  I  am  told  he  was  very  eccentric,  and  this  was 
probably  a  whim.  But  it  enabled  him  to  study  the  char 
acter  of  his  relative.  He  seems  to  have  been  satisfied,  and 
who  wouldn't?" 

"You  astound  me.  I  had  never  heard  that  John  Mor 
gan  went  to  Europe.  I  did  hear  that  he  went  annually 
to  Canada,  for  the  summer  months ;  that  is  all." 

"Edward  never  knew  of  the  connection  until  he  came 
here  and  saw  a  picture  of  John  Morgan,  drawn  by  Ger 
ald.  We  both  recognized  it  instantly."  Evan  was  silent, 
thinking  upon  this  curious  information.  At  last  he 
asked : 

"Was  Edward  Mr.  Morgan's  only  intimate  compan 
ion?" 

"The  only  one." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  why  Mr.  Morgan  concealed  his 
identity  under  an  assumed  name?" 

"No.  We  did  not  connect  Abingdon  with  John  Mor 
gan  until  letters  were  returned  with  information  that 
Abingdon  was  dead;  and  then  Gerald  drew  his  picture 
from  memory." 

And  as  these  i:wo  old  gentlemen  chattered  about  him 
Edward  himself  was  approaching  the  Montjoys. 

He  found  Mary  upon  the  porch;  his  horse's  feet  had 
announced  his  coming.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  a  glad 


308  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

light  shone  in  her  eyes.  She  gave  him  her  hand  without 
words;  she  had  intended  expressing  her  pleasure  and  her 
congratulations,  but  when  the  time  came  the  words  were 
impossible. 

"You  have  been  anxious,"  he  said,  reading  her  silence. 

"Yes,"  she  replied;  "I  could  not  doubt  you,  but  there 
are  so  many  things  involved,  and  I  had  no  one  to  talk 
with.  It  was  a  long  suspense,  but  women  have  to  learn 
such  lessons,"  and  then  she  added,  seeing  that  he  was 
silent:  "It  was  the  most  unhappy  day  of  my  life;  papa 
was  gone,  and  poor  mamma's  eyes  have  troubled  her  so 
much.  She  has  bandaged  them  again  and  stays  in  her 
room.  The  day  seemed  never-ending.  When  papa  came 
he  was  pale  and  haggard,  and  his  face  deceived  me.  I 
thought  that  something  had  gone  wrong — some  mistake 
had  occurred  and  you  were  in  trouble,  but  papa  was  ill, 
and  the  news — "  She  turned  her  face  away  suddenly, 
feeling  the  tears  starting. 

Edward  drew  her  up  to  a  settee  under  a  spreading  oak, 
and  seating  himself  beside  her  told  her  much  of  his  life's 
story — his  doubts,  his  hopes,  his  fears.  She  held  her 
breath  as  he  entered  upon  his  experience  at  Ilexhurst 
and  Gerald's  life  and  identity  were  dwelt  upon. 

"This,"  said  he  at  last,  "is  your  right  to  know.  It  is 
due  to  me.  I  cannot  let  you  misjudge  the  individual. 
While  I  am  convinced,  that  does  not  make  a  doubt  a  fact 
and  on  it  I  cannot  build  a  future.  You  have  my  history, 
and  you  know  that  in  the  heart  of  Edward  Morgan  you 
alone  have  any  part.  The  world  holds  no  other  woman 
for  me,  nor  ever  will;  but  there  is  the  end.  If  I  stayed 
by  you  the  day  would  come  when  this  love  would  sweep 
away  every  resolution,  every  sense  of  duty,  every  instinct 
of  my  mind,  except  the  instinct  to  love  you,  and  for  this 
reason  I  have  come  to  say  that  until  life  holds  no  mys 
tery  for  Edward  Morgan  he  will  be  an  exile  from  you." 

The  girl's  head  was  sunk  upon  her  arms  as  it  rested 
upon  the  settee.  She  did  not  lift  her  face.  What  could 
she  answer  to  such  a  revelation,  such  a  declaration? 
After  a  while  he  ceased  to  walk  the  gravel  floor  of  their 
arbor,  and  stood  by  her.  Unconsciously  he  let  his  hand 
rest  upon  the  brown  curls.  "This  does  not  mean,"  he 


DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY.  309 

said,  very  gently,  "that  I  am  going  away  to  mope  and 
wear  out  life  in  idle  regrets.  Marion  Evan  lives;  I  will 
find  her.  And  then — and  then — if  she  bids  me,  I  will 
come  back,  and  with  a  clean  record  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife.  Answer  me,  my  love;  my  only  love — let  me  say 
these  words  this  once — answer  me;  is  this  the  course 
that  an  honorable  man  should  pursue?" 

She  rose  then  and  faced  him  proudly.  His  words  had 
thrilled  her  soul. 

"It  is.  I  could  never  love  you,  Edward,  if  you  could 
offer  less.  I  have  no  doubt  in  my  mind — none.  A 
woman's  heart  knows  without  argument,  and  I  know 
that  you  will  come  to  me  some  day.  God  be  with  you 
till  we  meet  again — and  for  all  time  and  eternity.  This 
will  be  my  prayer." 

Without  object,  the  silent  couple,  busy  with  their 
thoughts,  entered  the  sitting-room.  The  colonel  was  sit 
ting  in  his  arm-chair,  his  paper  dropped  from  his  listless 
hand,  his  eyes  closed.  The  Duchess  in  his  lap  had  fallen 
asleep,  holding  the  old  open-faced  watch  and  its  mystery 
of  the  little  boy  within  who  cracked  hickory  nuts.  They 
made  a  pretty  picture — youth  and  old  age,  early  spring 
and  late  winter.  Mary  lifted  her  hand  warningly. 

"Softly,"  she  said;  "they  sleep;  don't  disturb  them." 
Edward  looked  closely  into  the  face  of  the  old  man,  and 
then  to  the  surprise  of  the  girl  placed  his  arm  about  her 
waist. 

"Do  not  cry  out,"  he  said;  "keep  calm  and  remember 
that  the  little  mamma's  health—" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said,  looking  with  wonder 
into  his  agitated  face  as  she  sought  gently  to  free  herself. 
"Have  you  forgotten — " 

"This  is  sleep  indeed — but  the  sleep  of  eternity." 

She  sprang  from  him  with  sudden  terror  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  the  cold  forehead  of  her  father.  For  an  in 
stant  she  stared  into  his  face,  with  straining  eyes,  and 
then  with  one  frightful  scream  she  sank  by  his  side, 
uttering  his  name  in  agonized  tones. 

Edward  strove  tearfully  to  calm  her;  it  was  too  late. 
Calling  upon  husband  and  daughter  frantically,  Mrs. 
Montjoy  rushed  from  her  room  into  the  presence  of 


310  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

death.  She  was  blindfolded,  but  with  unerring  instinct 
she  found  the  stilled  form  and  touched  the  dead  face. 
The  touch  revealed  the  truth;  with  one  quick  motion 
she  tore  away  the  bandages  from  her  face,  and  then  in 
sudden  awe  the  words  fell  from  her: 

"I  am  blind!"  Mary  had  risen  to  her  side  and  was 
clinging  to  her,  and  Edward  had  assisted,  fearing  she 
might  fall  to  the  floor.  But  with  the  consciousness  of 
her  last  misfortune  had  soon  come  calmness.  She  heed 
ed  not  the  cries  of  the  girl  appealing  to  her,  but  knelt 
with  her  white  face  lifted  and  said,  simply: 

"Dear  Father,  Thou  art  merciful ;  I  have  not  seen  him 
dead!  Blest  forever  be  Thy  holy  name!"  Edward  turned 
his  back  and  stood  with  bowed  head.  The  woman  knelt, 
the  silence  broken  now  only  by  the  sobs  of  the  daughter. 
Still  sleeping  in  the  lap  of  the  dead,  her  chubby  hand 
clasping  the  wonderful  toy,  was  the  Duchess,  and  at  her 
feet  the  streaming  sunlight  in  golden  splendor.  The  little 
boy  came  to  the  door  riding  the  old  man's  gold-headed 
cane  for  a  horse  and  carrying  the  cow  horn,  which  he 
had  pushed  from  its  nail  upon  the  porch. 

"Grandpa,  ain't  it  time  to  blow  the  horn?"  he  said. 
"Grandma,  why  don't  grandpa  wake  up?"  She  drew  him 
to  her  breast  and  silenced  his  queries. 

And  still  with  a  half-smile  upon  his  patrician  face — the 
face  that  women  and  children  loved  and  all  men  honored 
— sat  the  colonel;  one  more  leaf  from  the  old  south 
blown  to  earth. 

The  little  girl  awoke  at  last,  sat  up  and  caught  sight 
of  the  watch. 

"Look,  gamma.  Little  boy  in  deir  cackin'  hickeynut," 
and  she  placed  the  jewel  against  the  ear  of  the  kneeling 
woman. 

That  peculiarly  placid  expression,  driven  away  in  the 
moment  of  dissolution,  had  returned  to  the  dead  man; 
he  seemed  to  hear  the  Duchess  prattle  and  the  familiar 
demand  for  music  upon  the  horn. 

Isam  had  responded  to  the  outcry  and  rushed  in. 
With  a  sob  he  had  stood  by  the  body  a  moment  and  then 
gone  out  shaking  his  head  and  moaning.  And  then,  as 
they  waited,  there  rang  out  upon  the  clear  morning  air 


DEATH  OF  COL.  MONTJOY.  311 

the  plantation  bell — not  the  merry  call  to  labor  and  the 
sweet  summons  to  rest,  which  every  animal  on  the  plan 
tation  knew  and  loved,  but  a  solemn  tolling,  significant 
in  its  measured  volume. 

And  over  the  distant  fields  where  the  hands  were 
finishing  their  labors,  the  solemn  sounds  came  floating. 
Old  Peter  lifted  his  head.  "Who  dat  ring  dat  bell  dis 
time  er  day?"  he  said,  curiously;  and  then,  under  the 
lessening  volume  of  the  breeze,  the  sound  fell  to  almost 
silence,  to  rise  again  stronger  than  before  and  float  with 
sonorous  meaning. 

At  long  intervals  they  had  heard  it.  It  always  marked 
a  change  in  their  lives. 

One  or  two  of  the  men  began  to  move  doubtfully  to 
ward  the  house,  and  others  followed,  increasing  their  pace 
as  the  persistent  alarm  was  sounded,  until  some  were  run 
ning.  And  thus  they  came  to  where  old  Isam  tolled  the 
bell,  his  eyes  brimming  over  with  tears. 

"Old  marster's  gone!  Old  marster's  gone!"  he  called 
to  the  first,  and  the  words  went  down  the  line  and  were 
carried  to  the  "quarters,"  which  soon  gave  back  the  death 
chant  from  excited  women.  The  negroes  edged  into  the 
yard  and  into  the  hall,  and  then  some  of  the  oldest  into 
the  solemn  presence  of  the  dead,  gazing  in  silence  upon 
the  sad,  white  face  and  closed  eyes. 

Then  there  was  a  tumult  in  yard  and  hall;  a  shuffling 
of  feet  announced  a  newcomer.  Mammy  Phyllis,  walk 
ing  with  the  aid  of  a  staff,  entered  the  room  and  stood 
by  the  side  of  the  dead  man.  Every  voice  was  still; 
here  was  the  woman  who  had  nursed  him  and  who  had 
raised  him;  hers  was  the  right  to  a  superior  grief.  She 
gazed  long  and  tenderly  into  the  face  of  her  foster-child 
and  master  and  turned  away,  but  she  came  again  and  laid 
her  withered  hand  upon  his  forehead.  This  time  she 
went,  to  come  no  more.  In  the  room  of  the  bereaved 
wife  she  took  her  seat,  to  stay  a  silent  comforter  for  days. 
Her  own  grief  found  never  a  voice  or  a  tear. 

One  by  one  the  negroes  followed  her  example;  they 
passed  in  front  of  the  sleeper,  looked  steadily,  silently, 
into  his  face  and  went  out.  Some  touched  him  with 
the  tips  of  their  fingers,  doubtfully,  pathetically.  For 


312  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

them,  although  not  realized  fully,  it  was  the  passing  of 
the  old  regime.  It  was  the  first  step  into  that  life  where 
none  but  strangers  dwelt,  where  there  was  no  sympathy, 
no  understanding.  Some  would  drift  into  cities  to  die  of 
disease,  some  to  distant  cabins,  to  grow  old  alone!  One 
day  the  last  of  the  slaves  would  lie  face  up  and  the  old 
south  be  no  more. 

None  was  left  but  one.  Edward  came  at  last  and 
stood  before  his  host.  Long  and  thoughtfully  he  gazed 
and  then  passed  out.  He  had  place  in  neither  the  old  nor 
the  new.  But  the  dead  man  had  been  his  friend.  He 
would  not  forget  it. 


CHAPTER  LII. 
THE  ESCAPE  OP  AMOS  ROYSON. 

When  Amos  Royson's  senses  returned  to  him  he  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  room  in  the  county  jail.  The 
whirl  in  his  head,  wherein  had  mingled  the  faces  of  men, 
trees,  buildings  and  patches  of  sky  illumined  with  flashes 
of  intensest  light  and  vocal  with  a  multitude  of  cries — 
these,  the  rush  of  thoughts  and  the  pressure  upon  his 
arteries,  had  ceased.  He  looked  about  him  in  wonder. 
Was  it  all  a  dream?  From  the  rear  of  the  building, 
where  in  their  cage  the  negro  prisoners  were  confined, 
came  a  mighty  chorus,  "Swing  low,  sweet  chariot,"  mak 
ing  more  intense  the  silence  of  his  own  room.  That  was 
not  of  a  dream,  nor  the  bare  prison  walls,  nor  the  barrtd 
windows.  His  hands  nervously  clutching  his  lapels 
touched  something  cold  and  wet.  He  lifted  them  to  the 
light;  they  were  bloody!  He  made  no  outcry  when  he 
saw  this,  but  stood  a  long  minute  gazing  upon  them,  his 
face  wearing  in  that  half-shadow  a  confession  of  guilt. 
And  in  that  minute  all  the  facts  of  the  day  stood  forth, 
clear  cut  and  distinct,  and  his  situation  unfolded  itself. 
He  was  a  murderer,  a  perjurer  and  conspirator.  Not  a 
human  being  in  all  that  city  would  dare  to  call  him 
friend. 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON.  313 

The  life  of  this  man  had  been  secretly  bad;  he  had 
deluded  himself  with  maxims  and  rules  of  gentility.  He 
was,  in  fact,  no  worse  at  that  moment  in  jail  than  he  had 
been  at  heart  for  years.  But  now  he  had  been  suddenly 
exposed;  the  causes  he  had  set  in  motion  had  produced 
a  natural  but  unexpected  climax,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  in 
all  the  world  there  was  no  man  more  surprised  to  find 
that  Amos  Royson  was  a  villain  than  Royson  himself. 
He  was  stunned  at  first;  then  came  rage;  a  blind,  in 
creasing  rebellion  of  a  spirit  unused  to  defeat.  He  threw 
himself  against  the  facts  that  hemmed  him  in  as  a  wild 
animal  against  its  cage,  but  he  could  not  shake  them. 
They  were  still  facts.  He  was  doomed  by  them.  Then 
a  tide  of  grief  overwhelmed  him ;  his  heart  opened  back 
into  childhood;  he  plunged  face  down  upon  his  bed; 
silent,  oblivious  to  time,  and  to  the  jailer's  offer  of  food 
returning  no  reply.  Despair  had  received  him!  A 
weapon  at  hand  then  would  have  ended  the  career  of 
Amos  Royson. 

Time  passed.  No  human  being  from  the  outer  world 
called  upon  him.  Counsel  came  at  last,  in  answer  to  his 
request,  and  a  line  of  defense  had  been  agreed  upon. 
Temporary  insanity  would  be  set  up  in  the  murder  case, 
but  even  if  this  were  successful,  trials  for  perjury  and 
conspiracy  must  follow.  The  chances  were  against  his 
acquittal  in  any,  and  the  most  hopeful  view  he  could  take 
was  imprisonment  for  life. 

For  life!  How  often,  as  solicitor,  he  had  heard  the 
sentence  descend  upon  the  poor  wretches  he  prosecuted. 
And  not  one  was  as  guilty  as  he.  This  was  the  deliberate 
verdict  of  the  fairest  jury  known  to  man — the  convicting 
instincts  of  the  mind  that  tries  its  baser  self. 

At  the  hands  of  the  jailer  Royson  received  the  best  pos 
sible  treatment.  He  was  given  the  commodious  front 
room  and  allowed  every  reasonable  freedom.  This  officer 
was  the  sheriff's  deputy,  and  both  offices  were  political 
plums.  The  prisoner  had  largely  shaped  local  politics 
and  had  procured  for  him  the  sheriff's  bondsmen.  Office 
holders  are  not  ungrateful — when  the  office  is  elective. 

The  front  room  meant  much  to  a  prisoner;  it  gave 
him  a  glimpse  into  the  free,  busy  world  outside,  with  its 


314  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

seemingly  happy  men  and  women,  with  its  voices  of 
school  children  and  musical  cries  of  street  venders. 

This  spot,  the  window  of  his  room,  became  Royson's 
life.  He  stood  there  hour  after  hour,  only  withdrawing 
in  shame  when  he  saw  a  familiar  face  upon  the  street. 
And  standing  there  one  afternoon,  just  before  dark,  he 
beheld  Annie's  little  vehicle  stop  in  front  of  the  jail. 
She  descended,  and  as  she  came  doubtfully  forward  she 
caught  sight  of  his  face.  She  was  dressed  in  deep  black 
and  wore  a  heavy  crepe  veil.  There  was  a  few  minutes' 
delay,  and  then  the  room  door  opened  and  Annie  was 
coming  slowly  toward  him,  her  veil  thrown  back,  her 
face  pale  and  her  hand  doubtfully  extended.  He  looked 
upon  her  coldly  without  changing  his  position. 

"Are  you  satisfied?"  he  said,  at  length,  when  she  stood 
silent  before  him. 

Whatever  had  been  the  emotion  of  the  woman,  it,  too, 
passed  with  the  sound  of  his  sentence. 

"I  would  not  quarrel  with  you,  Amos,  and  I  might  do 
so  if  I  answered  that  question  as  it  deserves.  I  have  but 
a  few  minutes  to  stop  here  and  will  not  waste  them  upon 
the  past.  The  question  is  now  as  to  the  future.  Have 
you  any  plans?" 

"None,"  he  replied,  with  a  sneer.  "I  am  beyond  plans. 
Life  is  not  worth  living  if  I  were  out,  and  the  game  is 
now  not  worth  the  candle."  The  woman  stood  silent. 

"What  are  your  chances  for  acquittal?"  she  asked,  after 
a  long  silence. 

"Acquittal!  Absolutely  none!  Life  itself  may  by  a 
hard  struggle  be  saved.  After  that,  it  is  the  asylum  or 
the  mines." 

"And  then?" 

"And  then?  Well,  then  I  shall  ask  my  loving  cousin 
again  to  bring  me  a  powder.  I  will  remind  her  once 
more  that  no  Royson  ever  wore  chains  or  a  halter,  how 
ever  much  they  may  have  deserved  them.  And  for  the 
sake  of  her  children  she  will  consent."  She  walked  to  the 
corridor  door  and  listened  and  then  came  back  to  him. 
He  smiled  and  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"Amos,"  she  whispered,  hurriedly;  "God  forgive  me, 
but  I  have  brought  it.  I  am  going  to  New  York  to- 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON.  315 

morrow,  and  the  chance  may  not  come  again.  Remem 
ber,  it  is  at  your  request."  She  was  fumbling  nervously 
at  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  'The  morphine  I  could  not 
get  without  attracting  attention,  but  the  chloroform  I  had. 
I  give  it  to  you  for  use  only  when  life — "  He  had  taken 
the  bottle  and  was  quietly  looking  upon  the  white  liquid. 

"I  thank  you,  cousin,"  he  said,  quietly,  with  a  ghastly 
little  laugh.  "I  have  no  doubt  but  that  I  can  be  spared 
from  the  family  gatherings  and  that  in  days  to  come  per 
haps  some  one  will  occasionally  say  'poor  Amos/  when 
my  fate  is  recalled.  Thanks,  a  thousand  thanks !  Strange, 
but  the  thought  of  death  actually  gives  me  new  life."  He 
looked  upon  her  critically  a  moment  and  then  a  new 
smile  dawned  upon  his  face. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "your  note  about  Morgan ;  it  will  be  un 
fortunate  if  that  ever  comes  to  light.  You  were  not 
smart,  Annie.  You  could  have  bought  that  with  this 
bottle."  She  flushed  in  turn  and  bit  her  lip.  The  old 
Annie  was  still  dominant. 

"It  would  have  been  better  since  Mr.  Morgan  is  to 
be  my  brother-in-law.  Still  if  there  is  no  love  between 
us  it  will  not  matter  greatly.  Mary  seems  to  be  willing 
to  furnish  all  the  affection  he  will  need." 

"Where  is  he?"  he  asked,  hoarsely,  not  attempting  to 
disguise  his  suffering.  She  was  now  relentless. 

"Oh,  at  Ilexhurst,  I  suppose.  The  general  is  to  care 
for  the  old  German  until  the  household  is  arranged  again 
and  everything  made  ready  for  the  bride." 

"Is  the  marriage  certain?" 

She  smiled  cheerfully.  "Oh,  yes.  It  is  to  take  place 
soon,  and  then  they  are  going  to  Europe  for  a  year." 
And  then  as,  white  with  rage,  he  steadied  himself  against 
the  window,  she  said:  "Mary  insisted  upon  writing  a 
line  to  you ;  there  it  is.  If  you  can  get  any  comfort  from 
it,  you  are  welcome." 

He  took  the  note  and  thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  never 
removing  his  eyes  from  her  face.  A  ray  had  fallen  into 
the  blackness  of  his  despair.  It  grew  and  brightened  until 
it  lighted  his  soul  with  a  splendor  that  shone  from  his 
eyes  and  trembled  upon  every  lineament  of  his  face. 
Not  a  word  had  indicated  its  presence.  It  was  the  silent 


316  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

expression  of  a  hope  and  a  desperate  resolve.  The  woman 
saw  it  and  drew  back  in  alarm.  A  suspicion  that  he 
was  suddenly  insane  came  upon  her  mind,  and  she  was 
alone,  helpless  and  shut  in  with  a  maniac.  A  wild  desire 
to  scream  and  flee  overwhelmed  her;  she  turned  toward 
the  door  and  in  a  minute  would  have  been  gone. 

But  the  man  had  read  her  correctly.  He  seized  her, 
clapped  his  hand  over  her  mouth,  lifted  her  as  he  would 
a  child  and  thrust  her  backward  on  the  bed.  Before  she 
could  tear  the  grip  from  her  mouth,  he  had  drawn  the 
cork  with  his  teeth  and  drenched  the  pillow-case  with 
chloroform.  There  was  one  faint  cry  as  he  moved  his 
hand,  but  the  next  instant  the  drug  was  in  her  nostrils 
and  lungs.  She  struggled  frantically,  then  faintly,  and 
then  lay  powerless  at  the  mercy  of  the  man  bending  over 
her. 

Hardly  more  than  two  minutes  had  passed,  but  in  that 
time  Amos  Royson  was  transformed.  He  had  a  chance 
for  life  and  that  makes  men  of  cowards.  He  stripped 
away  the  outer  garments  of  the  woman  and  arrayed  him 
self  in  them,  adding  the  bonnet  and  heavy  veil,  and  then 
turned  to  go.  He  was  cool  now  and  careful.  He  went 
to  the  bed  and  drew  the  cover  over  the  prostrate  form. 
He  had  occupied  the  same  place  in  the  same  attitude  for 
hours.  The  jailer  would  come,  offer  supper  from  the 
door  and  go  away.  He  would,  if  he  got  out,  have  the 
whole  night  for  flight.  And  he  would  need  it.  The 
morn  might  bring  no  waking  to  the  silent  form.  The 
thought  chilled  his  blood,  but  it  also  added  speed  to  his 
movements.  He  drew  off  the  pillow-case,  rolled  it  into 
a  ball  and  dropped  it  out  of  the  window.  He  had  seen 
the  woman  approach  with  veil  down  and  handkerchief 
to  her  face.  It  was  his  cue.  He  bent  his  head,  pressed 
his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  beneath  the  veil  and  went 
below.  The  jailer  let  the  bent,  sob-shaken  figure  in  and 
then  out  of  the  office.  The  higher  class  seldom  came 
there.  He  stood  bareheaded  until  the  visitor  climbed 
into  the  vehicle  and  drove  away. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  only  that  Royson 
restrained  himself  and  suffered  the  little  mare  to  keep  a 
moderate  pace.  Fifteen  minutes  ago  a  hopeless  prisoner, 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON.  317 

and  now  free!  Life  is  full  of  surprises.  But  where? 
Positively  the  situation  had  shaped  itself  so  rapidly  he 
had  not  the  slightest  plan  in  mind.  He  was  free  and 
hurrying  into  the  country  without  a  hat  and  dressed  in  a 
woman's  garb! 

The  twilight  had  deepened  into  gloom.  How  long 
would  it  be  before  pursuit  began?  And  should  he  keep  on 
the  disguise?  He  slipped  out  of  it  to  be  ready  for  rapid 
flight,  and  then  upon  a  second  thought  put  it  on  again. 
He  might  be  met  and  recognized.  His  whole  manner 
had  undergone  a  change;  he  was  now  nervous  and  ex 
cited,  and  the  horse,  unconsciously  urged  along,  was 
running  at  full  speed.  A  half-hour  at  that  rate  would 
bear  him  to  the  hall.  Cursing  his  imprudence,  he 
checked  the  animal  and  drove  on  more  moderately  and 
finally  stopped.  He  could  not  think  intelligently.  Should 
he  go  on  to  the  hall  and  throw  himself  upon  the  mercy 
of  his  connections?  They  would  be  bound  to  save  him. 
Mary!  Ah,  Mary!  And  then  the  note  thrust  itself  in 
mind.  With  feverish  haste  he  searched  for  and  drew  it 
out.  He  tore  off  the  envelope  and  helped  by  a  flickering 
match  he  read: 

"You  must  have  suffered  before  you  could  have  sinned 
so,  and  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Believe  me,  however  others 
may  judge  you,  there  is  no  resentment  but  only  forgive 
ness  for  you  in  the  heart  of  Mary." 

Then  the  tumult  within  him  died  away.  No  man  can 
say  what  that  little  note  did  for  Amos  Royson  that  night. 
He  would  go  to  her,  to  this  generous  girl,  and  ask  her 
aid.  But  Annie!  What  if  that  forced  sleep  should  deepen 
into  death!  Who  could  extricate  her?  How  would 
Mary  arrange  that?  She  would  get  Morgan.  He  could 
not  refuse  her  anything.  He  could  not  falter  when  the 
family  name  and  family  honor  were  at  stake.  He  could 
not  let  his  wife — his  wife!  A  cry  burst  from  the  lips 
of  the  desperate  man.  His  wife!  Yes,  he  would  go  to 
him,  but  not  for  help.  Amos  Royson  might  die  or  escape 
— but  the  triumph  of  this  man  should  be  shortlived. 

The  mare  began  running  again;   he  drew  rein  with  a 


318  SONS  AND   FATHERS. 

violence  that  brought  the  animal's  front  feet  high  in  air 
and  almost  threw  her  to  the  ground.  A  new  idea  had 
been  born;  he  almost  shouted  over  it.  He  tore  off  the 
woman's  garb,  dropped  it  in  the  buggy,  sprang  out  and 
let  the  animal  go.  In  an  instant  the  vehicle  was  out  of 
sight  in  the  dark  woods,  and  Royson  was  running  the 
other  way.  For  the  idea  born  in  his  mind  was  this: 

"Of  all  the  places  in  the  world  for  me  the  safest  is  Ilex- 
hurst — if — "  He  pressed  his  hand  to  his  breast.  The 
bottle  was  still  safe!  And  Annie!  The  horse  returning 
would  lead  to  her  release. 

Amos  Royson  had  a  general  knowledge  of  the  situa 
tion  at  Ilexhurst.  At  12  o'clock  he  entered  through  the 
glass-room  and  made  his  way  to  the  body  of  the  house. 
He  was  familiar  with  the  lower  floor.  The  upper  he 
could  guess  at.  He  must  first  find  the  occupied  room, 
and  so,  taking  off  his  shoes,  he  noiselessly  ascended  the 
stairway.  He  passed  first  into  the  boy's  room  and  tried 
the  door  to  that  known  as  the  mother's,  but  it  was 
locked.  He  listened  there  long  and  intently,  but  heard 
no  sound  except  the  thumping  of  his  own  heart.  Then 
he  crossed  the  hall  and  there,  upon  a  bed  in  the  front 
room,  dimly  visible  in  the  starlight,  was  the  man  he 
sought 

The  discovery  of  his  victom,  helpless  and  completely 
within  his  power,  marked  a  crisis  in  the  mental  progres 
sion  of  Royson.  He  broke  down  and  trembled  violently, 
not  from  conscience,  but  from  a  realization  of  the  fact 
that  his  escape  was  now  an  accomplished  fact.  This 
man  before  him  disposed  of,  Ilexhurst  was  his  for  an 
indefinite  length  of  time.  Here  he  could  rest  and  pre 
pare  for  a  distant  flight.  No  one  would  come,  and 
should  any  one  come,  why,  the  house  was  unoccupied. 
The  mood  passed;  he  went  back  to  the  hall,  drew  out 
his  handkerchief  and  saturated  it  with  liquid  from  the 
bottle  in  his  pocket.  A  distant  tapping  alarmed  him, 
and  he  drew  deeper  into  the  shadow.  Some  one  seemed 
knocking  at  a  rear  door.  Or  was  it  a  rat  with  a  nut  in 
the  wall?  All  old  houses  have  them.  No;  it  was  the 
tapping  of  a  friendly  tree  upon  the  weather  boards,  or  a 
ventilator  in  the  garret.  So  he  reasoned.  There  came 


THE  ESCAPE  OF  AMOS  ROYSON.  319 

a  strange  sensation  upon  his  brain,  a  sweet,  sickening 
taste  in  his  mouth  and  dizziness.  He  cast  the  cloth  far 
away  and  rushed  to  the  stairs,  his  heart  beating  violently. 
He  had  almost  chloroformed  himself  while  listening  to 
his  coward  fears. 

The  dizziness  passed  away,  but  left  him  unnerved.  He 
dared  not  walk  now.  He  crawled  to  the  cloth  and  thence 
into  the  room.  Near  the  bed  he  lifted  his  head  a  little 
and  saw  the  white  face  of  the  sleeper  turned  to  him.  He 
raised  the  cloth  and  held  it  ready;  there  would  be  a 
struggle,  and  it  would  be  desperate.  Would  he  fail? 
Was  he  not  already  weakened?  He  let  it  fall  gently  in 
front  of  the  sleeper's  face,  and  then  inch  by  inch  pushed 
it  nearer.  Over  his  own  senses  he  felt  the  languor  steal 
ing;  how  was  it  with  the  other?  The  long,  regular  inspi 
rations  ceased,  the  man  slept  profoundly  and  noiselessly 
— the  first  stage  of  unconsciousness.  The  man  on  the 
floor  crawled  to  the  window  and  laid  his  pale  cheek  upon 
the  sill. 

How  long  Royson  knelt  he  never  knew.  He  stood  up 
at  last  with  throbbing  temples,  but  steadier.  He  went 
up  to  the  sleeper  and  shook  him — gently  at  first,  then 
violently.  The  drug  had  done  its  work. 

Then  came  the  search  for  more  matches  and  then 
light.  And  there  upon  the  side  table,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  was  the  picture  that  Gerald  had  drawn ;  the  face 
of  Mary,  severe  and  noble,  the  fine  eyes  gazing  straight 
into  his. 

He  had  not  thought  out  his  plans.  It  is  true  that  the 
house  was  his  for  days,  if  he  wished  it,  but  how  about 
the  figure  upon  the  bed?  Could  he  occupy  that  building 
with  such  a  tenant?  It  seemed  to  him  the  sleeper  moved. 
Quickly  wetting  the  handkerchief  again  he  laid  it  upon 
the  cold  lips,  with  a  towel  over  it  to  lessen  evaporation. 
And  as  he  turned,  the  eyes  of  the  picture  followed  him. 
He  must  have  money  to  assist  his  escape;  the  sleeper's 
clothing  was  there.  He  lifted  the  garments.  An  irre 
sistible  power  drew  his  attention  to  the  little  table,  and 
there,  still  fixed  upon  him,  were  the  calm,  proud  eyes  of 
the  girl.  Angrily  he  cast  aside  the  clothing.  The  eyes 
still  held  him  in  their  power,  and  now  they  were  scornful. 


320  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

They  seemed  to  measure  and  weigh  him:  Amos  Roy- 
son,  murderer,  perjurer,  conspirator — thief!  The  words 
were  spoken  somewhere;  they  became  vocal  in  that  still 
room.  Terrified,  he  looked  to  the  man  upon  the  bed 
arid  there  he  saw  the  eyes,  half-open,  fixed  upon  him 
and  the  towel  moving  above  the  contemptuous  lips.  With 
one  bound  he  passed  from  the  room,  down  the  steps, 
toward  the  door.  Anywhere  to  be  out  of  that  room,  that 
house! 


CHAPTER  LIII. 
HOW  A  DEBT  WAS  PAID. 

On  went  the  spirited  mare  to  the  hall,  skillfully  avoid 
ing  obstructions,  and  drew  up  at  last  before  the  big  gate. 
She  had  not  been  gentle  in  her  approach,  and  old  Isam 
was  out  in  the  night  holding  her  bit  and  talking  to  her 
before  she  realized  that  her  coming  had  not  been  ex 
pected. 

"De  Lord  bless  yer,  horse,  whar  you  be'n  an'  what 
you  done  wid  young  missus?"  Mary  was  now  out  on 
the  porch. 

"What  is  it,  Isam?" 

"For  Gawd  sake,  come  hyar,  missy.  Dis  hyar  fool 
horse  done  come  erlong  back  'thout  young  missus,  an'  I 
spec'  he  done  los'  her  out  in  de  road  somewhar — "  Mary 
caught  sight  of  the  dress  and  bonnet  and  greatly 
alarmed  drew  them  out.  She  could  not  think  of  a  solu 
tion  of  the  mystery.  What  could  have  happened?  Why 
was  Annie's  bonnet  and  clothing  in  the  buggy?  For  an 
instant  her  heart  stood  still. 

Her  presence  of  mind  soon  returned.  Her  mother  had 
retired,  and  so,  putting  the  maid  on  guard,  she  came 
out  and  with  Isam  beside  her  turned  the  horse's  head 
back  toward  the  city.  But  as  mile  after  mile  passed  noth 
ing  explained  the  mystery.  There  was  no  dark  form  by 
the  roadside.  At  no  place  did  the  intelligent  animal 
scent  blood  and  turn  aside.  It  was  likely  that  Annie 


HOW  A  DEBT  WAS  PAID.  321 

had  gone  to  spend  the  night  with  a  friend,  as  she  declared 
she  would  if  the  hour  were  too  late  to  enter  the  jail. 
But  the  clothing! 

The  girl  drove  within  sight  of  the  prison,  but  could 
not  bring  herself,  at  that  hour,  to  stop  there.  She  passed 
on  to  Annie's  friends.  She  had  not  been  there.  She 
tried  others  with  no  better  success.  And  now,  thoroughly 
convinced  that  something  terrible  had  occurred,  she  drove 
on  to  Ilexhurst.  As  the  tired  mare  climbed  the  hill  and 
Mary  saw  the  light  shining  from  the  upper  window,  she 
began  to  realize  that  the  situation  was  not  very  much 
improved.  After  all,  Annie's  disappearance  might  be 
easily  explained  and  how  she  would  sneer  at  her  readi 
ness  to  run  to  Mr.  Morgan!  It  was  the  thought  of  a 
very  young  girl. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back.  She  drew  rein  before 
the  iron  gate  and  boldly  entered,  leaving  Isam  with  the 
vehicle.  She  rapidly  traversed  the  walk,  ascended  the 
steps  and  was  reaching  out  for  the  knocker,  when  the 
door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  and  a  man  ran  violently 
against  her.  She  was  almost  hurled  to  the  ground,  but 
frightened  as  she  was,  it  was  evident  that  the  accidental 
meeting  had  affected  the  other  more.  He  staggered  back 
into  the  hall  and  stood  irresolute  and  white  with  terror. 
She  came  forward  amazed  and  only  half-believing  the 
testimony  of  her  senses. 

"Mr.  Royson!"  The  man  drew  a  deep  breath  and  put 
his  hand  upon  a  chair,  nodding  his  head.  He  had  for  the 
moment  lost  the  power  of  speech. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  asked.  "Why  are  you — 
here?  Where  is  Mr.  Morgan?"  His  ghastliness  returned. 
He  wavered  above  the  chair  and  then  sank  into  it.  Then 
he  turned  his  face  toward  hers  in  silence.  She  read  some 
thing  there,  as  in  a  book.  She  did  not  cry  out,  but  went 
and  caught  his  arm  and  hung  above  him  with  white 
face.  "You  have  not — oh,  no,  you  have  not — "  She  could 
say  no  more.  She  caught  his  hand  and  looked  dumbly 
upon  it.  The  man  drew  it  away  violently  as  the  horror 
of  a  memory  came  upon  him. 

"Not  that  way!"  he  said. 

"Ah,  not  that  way!  Speak  to  me,  Mr.  Royson — tell 
21 


322  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

me  you  do  not  mean  it — he  is  not "  The  whisper 

died  out  in  that  dim  hall.  He  turned  his  face  away  a  mo 
ment  and  then  looked  back.  Lifting  his  hand  he  pointed 
up  the  stairway.  She  left  him  and  staggered  up  the  steps 
slowly,  painfully,  holding  by  the  rail;  weighed  upon  by 
the  horror  above  and  the  horror  below.  Near  the  top 
she  stopped  and  looked  back;  the  man  was  watching  her 
as  if  fascinated.  She  went  on ;  he  arose  and  followed  her. 
He  found  her  leaning  against  the  door  afraid  to  enter; 
her  eyes  riveted  upon  a  form  stretched  upon  the  bed,  a 
cloth  over  its  face;  a  strange,  sweet  odor  in  the  air.  He 
came  and  paused  by  her  side,  probably  insane,  for  he  was 
smiling  now. 

"Behold  the  bridegroom,"  he  said.  "Go  to  him;  he  is 
not  dead.  He  has  been  waiting  for  you.  Why  are  you  so 
late?"  She  heard  only  two  words  clearly.  "Not  dead!" 

"Oh,  no,"  he  laughed ;  "not  dead.  He  only  sleeps,  with 
a  cloth  and  chloroform  upon  his  face.  He  is  not  dead!" 
With  a  movement  swift  as  a  bounding  deer,  she  sprung 
across  the  room,  seized  the  cloth  and  hurled  it  from  the 
window.  Then  she  caught  the  sleeper's  shoulders  and 
shook  him  and  wrung  his  hands  and  called  him  by  his 
name.  She  added  names  that  her  maiden  cheeks  would 
have  paled  at,  and  pressed  her  face  to  his,  kissing  the 
still  and  silent  lips  and  moaning  piteously. 

The  man  at  the  door  drew  away  suddenly,  went  to  the 
stairway  and  passed  down.  No  sound  was  heard  now  in 
the  house  except  the  moaning  of  the  girl  upstairs.  He 
put  on  a  hat  in  the  hall  below,  closed  the  door  cautiously 
and  prepared  to  depart  as  he  had  come,  when  again  he 
paused  irresolute.  Then  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
crumpled  paper  and  read  it.  And  there,  under  that  one 
jet  which  fell  upon  him  in  the  great  hall,  something  was 
born  that  night  in  the  heart  of  Amos  Royson — something 
that  proved  him  for  the  moment  akin  to  the  gods.  He 
lifted  his  pale  face,  then  almost  transformed.  The  girl 
had  glided  down  the  steps  and  was  fleeing  past  him  for 
succor.  He  caught  her  arm. 

"Wait,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  will  help  you!"  She 
ceased  to  struggle  and  looked  appealingly  into  his  face. 
"I  have  not  much  to  say,  but  it  is  for  eternity.  The  man 


HOW  A  DEBT  WAS  PAID.  323 

upstairs  is  now  in  no  immediate  danger.  Mary,  I  have 
loved  you  as  I  did  not  believe  myself  capable  of  loving 
any  one.  It  is  the  glorious  spot  in  the  desert  of  my  na 
ture.  I  have  been  remorseless  with  men;  it  all  seemed 
war  to  me,  a  war  of  Ishmaelites — civilized  war  is  an  ab 
surdity.  Had  you  found  anything  in  me  to  love,  I  believe 
it  would  have  made  me  another  man,  but  you  did  not. 
And  none  can  blame  you.  To-night,  for  every  kind  word 
you  have  spoken  to  Amos  Royson,  for  the  note  you  sent 
him  to-day,  he  will  repay  you  a  thousandfold.  Come 
with  me."  He  half-lifted  her  up  the  steps  and  to  the 
room  of  the  sleeper.  Then  wringing  out  wet  towels  he 
bathed  the  face  and  neck  of  the  unconscious  man, 
rubbed  the  cold  wrists  and  feet  and  forced  cold  water  into 
the  mouth.  It  was  a  doubtful  half-hour,  but  at  last  the 
sleeper  stirred  and  moaned.  Then  Royson  paused. 

"He  will  awaken  presently.  Give  me  half  an  hour  to 
get  into  a  bateau  on  the  river  and  then  you  may  tell  him 
all.  That — "  he  said,  after  a  pause,  looking  out  of  the 
window,  through  which  was  coming  the  distant  clamor 
of  bells — "that  indicates  that  Annie  has  waked  and 
screamed.  And  now  good-by.  I  could  have  taken  your 
lover's  life."  He  picked  up  the  picture  from  the  table, 
kissed  it  once  and  passed  out. 

Mary  was  alone  with  her  lover.  Gradually  under  her 
hand  consciousness  came  back  and  he  realized  that  the 
face  in  the  light  by  him  was  not  of  dreams  but  of  life 
itself — that  life  which,  but  for  her  and  the  gentleness  of 
her  woman's  heart,  would  have  passed  out  that  night  at 
Ilexhurst. 

And  as  he  drifted  back  again  into  consciousness  under 
the  willows  of  the  creeping  river  a  little  boat  drifted  to 
ward  the  sea. 

Dawn  was  upon  the  eastern  hills  when  Mary,  with  her 
rescued  sister-in-law,  crept  noiselessly  into  the  hall.  It 
was  in  New  York  that  the  latter  read  the  account  of  her 
mortification. 


324  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
THE    UNOPENED    LETTER. 

Soon  it  became  known  that  Col.  Montjoy  had  gone  to 
his  final  judgment.  Then  came  the  old  friends  of  his 
young  manhood  out  of  their  retreats;  the  country  for 
twenty  miles  about  gave  them  up  to  the  occasion.  They 
brought  with  them  all  that  was  left  of  the  old  times — 
courtesy,  sympathy  and  dignity. 

There  were  soldiers  among  them,  and  here  and  there 
an  empty  sleeve  and  a  scarred  face.  There  was  simply 
one  less  in  their  ranks.  Another  would  follow,  and  an 
other;  the  morrow  held  the  mystery  for  the  next. 

Norton  had  returned  and  with  him  his  wife.  He  was 
violently  affected,  after  the  fashion  of  mercurial  tempera 
ments,  but  she  was  cold  and  silent.  The  dead  man  was 
nothing  to  her  in  life,  more  than  a  restraint.  She  could 
not  be  expected  to  weep.  On  Edward  by  accident  had 
fallen  the  arrangements  for  the  funeral,  and  with  the  ad 
vice  of  the  general  he  had  managed  them  well.  Fate 
seemed  to  make  him  a  member  of  that  household  in 
spite  of  himself. 

The  general  was  made  an  honorary  pall-bearer,  and 
when  the  procession  moved  at  last  into  the  city  and  to 
the  church,  without  forethought  it  fell  to  Edward — there 
was  no  one  else — to  support  and  sustain  the  daughter  of 
the  house.  It  seemed  a  matter  of  course  that  he  should 
do  this,  and  as  they  followed  the  coffin  up  the  aisle,  be 
tween  the  two  ranks  of  people  gathered  there,  the  fact 
was  noted  in  silence  to  be  discussed  later.  This  then,  read 
the  universal  verdict,  was  the  sequel  of  a  romance. 

But  Edward  thought  of  none  of  these  things.  The 
loving  heart  of  the  girl  was  convulsed  with  grief.  Since 
childhood  she  had  been  the  idol  of  her  father,  and  be 
tween  them  had  never  come  a  cloud.  To  her  that  white- 
haired  father  represented  the  best  of  manhood.  Edward 
almost  lifted  her  to  and  from  the  carriage,  and  her  weight 
was  heavy  upon  his  arm  as  they  followed  the  coffin. 

But   the  end    came;   beautiful  voices    had    lifted   the 


THE  UNOPENED  LETTER.  325 

wounded  hearts  to  heaven  and  the  minister  had  implored 
its  benediction  upon  them.  The  soul-harrowing  sound 
of  the  clay  upon  the  coffin  had  followed  and  all  was  over. 

Edward  found  himself  alone  in  the  carriage  with  Mary, 
and  the  ride  was  long.  He  did  not  know  how  to  lead  the 
troubled  mind  away  from  its  horror  and  teach  it  to  cling 
to  'the  unchanging  rocks  of  faith.  The  girl  had  sunk 
down  behind  her  veil  in  the  corner  of  the  coach;  her 
white  hands  lay  upon  her  lap.  He  took  these  in  his  own 
firm  clasp  and  held  them  tightly.  It  seemed  natural  that 
he  should;  she  did  not  withdraw  them;  she  may  not 
have  known  it. 

And  so  they  came  back  home  to  where  the  brave  little 
wife,  who  had  promised  "though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  1 
praise  Him,"  sat  among  the  shadows  keeping  her  prom 
ise.  The  first  shock  had  passed  and  after  that  the  faith 
and  serene  confidence  of  the  woman  were  never  disturbed. 
She  would  have  died  at  the  stake  the  same  way. 

The  days  that  followed  were  uneventful,  Norton  had 
recovered  his  composure  as  suddenly  as  he  had  lost  it, 
and  discussed  the  situation  freely.  There  was  now  no 
one  to  manage  the  place  and  he  could  not  determine 
what  was  to  be  done.  In  the  meantime  he  was  obliged  to 
return  to  business  and  the  next  day  he  went  to  Edward 
and,  thanking  him  for  all  the  kindness  to  mother  and 
sister,  hurried  back  to  New  York,  and  Annie  went  with 
him  for  a  week's  change.  Edward  had  spent  one  more 
day  with  the  Montjoy's  at  Norton's  request,  and  now  he, 
too,  took  his  departure. 

When  Edward  parted  from  Mary  and  the  blind  mother 
he  had  recourse  to  his  sternest  stoicism  to  restrain  him 
self.  He  escaped  an  awkward  situation  by  promising  to 
be  gone  only  two  days  before  coming  again.  At  home 
he  found  Virdow  philosophically  composed  and  engaged 
in  the  library,  a  new  servant  having  been  provided,  and 
everything  proceeding  smoothly.  Edward  went  to  him 
and  said,  abruptly: 

"When  is  it  your  steamer  sails,  Herr  Virdow?" 

"One  week  from  to-day,"  said  that  individual,  not  a 
little  surprised  at  his  friend's  manner.  "Why  do  you 
ask?" 


326  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Because  I  go  with  you,  never  again  in  all  likelihood 
to  enter  America.  From  to-day,  then,  you  will  excuse  my 
absences.  I  have  many  affairs  to  settle." 

Virdow  heard  him  in  silence,  but  presently  he  asked : 

"Are  you  not  satisfied  now,  Edward?" 

"I  am  satisfied  that  I  am  the  son  of  Marion  Evan,  but 
I  will  have  undoubted  and  unmistakable  proof  before  I 
set  foot  in  this  community  again!  There  is  little  chance 
to  obtain  it.  Nearly  thirty  years — it  is  a  long  time,  and 
the  back  trail  is  covered  up." 

"What  are  your  plans?" 

"To  employ  the  best  detectives  the  world  can  afford, 
and  give  them  carte  blanche." 

"But  why  this  search?  Is  it  not  better  to  rest  under 
your  belief  and  take  life  quietly?  There  are  many  new 
branches  of  science  and  philosophy — you  have  a  quick 
mind,  you  are  young — why  not  come  with  me  and  put 
aside  the  mere  details  of  existence?  There  are  greater 
truths  worth  knowing,  Edward,  than  the  mere  truth  of 
one's  ancestry."  Edward  looked  long  and  sadly  into  his 
face  and  shook  his  head. 

"These  mere  facts,"  he  said  at  length,  "mean  everything 
with  me."  He  went  to  his  room;  there  were  hours  of 
silence  and  then  Virdow  heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  old 
house  the  sound  of  Gerald's  violin,  for  Edward's  had 
been  left  in  Mary's  care.  His  philosophy  could  not  resist 
the  fatherland  appeal  that  floated  down  the  great  hall 
and  filled  the  night  with  weird  and  tender  melody.  For 
the  man  who  played  worshiped  as  he  drew  the  bow. 

But  silence  came  deep  over  Ilexhurst  and  Virdow 
slept.  Not  so  Edward;  he  was  to  begin  his  great  search 
that  night.  He  went  to  the  wing-room  and  the  glass- 
room  and  flooded  them  with  light.  A  thrill  struck 
through  him  as  he  surveyed  again  the  scene  and  seemed 
to  see  the  wild  face  of  his  comrade  pale  in  death  upon 
the  divan.  There  under  that  rod  still  pointing  signifi 
cantly  down  to  the  steel  disk  he  had  died.  And  outside 
in  the  darkness  had  Rita  also  died.  He  alone  was  left. 
The  drama  could  not  be  long  now.  There  was  but  one 
actor. 

He  searched  among  all  the  heaps  of  memoranda  and 


THE  UNOPENED  LETTER.  327 

writings  upon  the  desk.  They  were  memoranda  and 
notes  upon  experiments  and  queries.  Edward  touched 
them  one  by  one  to  the  gas  jet  and  saw  them  flame  and 
blacken  into  ashes,  and  now  nothing  was  left  but  the 
portfolio — and  that  contained  but  four  pictures — the  faces 
of  Slippery  Dick,  himself  and  Mary  and  the  strange  scene 
at  the  church.  One  only  was  valuable — the  face  of  the 
girl  which  he  knew  he  had  given  to  the  artist  upon  the 
song  he  had  played.  This  one  he  took,  and  restored  the 
others. 

He  had  turned  out  the  light  in  the  glass-room,  and  was 
approaching  the  jet  in  the  wing-room  to  extinguish  it, 
when  upon  the  mantel  he  saw  a  letter  which  bore  the 
address  "H.  Abingdon,  care  John  Morgan,"  unopened. 
How  long  it  had  been  there  no  one  was  left  to  tell.  The 
postman,  weary  of  knocking,  had  probably  brought  it 
around  to  the  glass-room ;  or  the  servant  had  left  it  with 
Gerald.  It  was  addressed  by  a  woman's  hand  and  bore 
the  postmark  of  Paris,  with  the  date  illegible.  It  was  a 
hurried  note: 

"Dear  Friend:  What  has  happened?  When  you  were 
called  home  so  suddenly,  you  wrote  me  that  you  had  im 
portant  news  to  communicate  if  you  could  overcome  cer 
tain  scruples,  and  that  you  would  return  immediately,  or 
as  soon  as  pressing  litigation  involving  large  interests 
was  settled,  and  in  your  postscript  you  added  'keep  up 
your  courage/  You  may  imagine  how  I  have  waited  and 
watched,  and  read  and  reread  the  precious  note.  But 
months  have  passed  and  I  have  not  heard  from  you.  Are 
you  ill?  I  will  come  to  you.  Are  you  still  at  work  upon 
my  interests?  Write  to  me  and  relieve  the  strain  and 
anxiety.  I  would  not  hurry  you,  but  remember  it  is  a 
mother  who  waits.  Yours,  Gambia." 

"Gambia!"  Edward  repeated  the  name  aloud.  Gam 
bia.  A  flood  of  thoughts  rushed  over  him.  What  was 
Gambia — John  Morgan  to  him?  The  veil  was  lifting. 
And  then  came  a  startling  realization.  Gambia,  the  wife 
of  Gaspard  Levigne! 

"God  in  heaven,"  he  said,  fervently,  "help  me  now!" 


328  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

Virdow  was  gone;  only  the  solemn  memories  of  the 
room  kept  him  company.  He  sunk  upon  the  divan  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  If  Gambia  was  the  woman, 
then  the  man  who  had  died  in  his  arms — the  exile,  the 
iron-scarred,  but  innocent,  convict,  the  hero  who  passed 
in  silence — was  her  husband!  And  he?  The  great  musi 
cian  had  given  him  not  only  the  violin  but  genius !  Gam 
bia  had  begged  of  his  dying  breath  proofs  of  marriage. 
The  paling  lips  had  moved  to  reply  in  vain. 

The  mystery  was  laid  bare ;  the  father  would  not  claim 
him,  because  of  his  scars,  and  the  mother — she  dared  not 
look  him  in  the  face  with  the  veil  lifted!  But  he  would 
face  her;  he  would  know  the  worst;  nothing  could  be 
more  terrible  than  the  mystery  that  was  crushing  the  bet 
ter  side  of  his  life  and  making  hope  impossible.  He 
would  face  her  and  demand  the  secret. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

"WOMAN,   WHAT  WAS  HE  TO   YOU?" 

Edward  had  formed  a  definite  determination  and  made 
his  arrangements  at  once.  There  had  been  a  coolness 
between  him  and  Eldridge  since  the  publication  of  the 
Royson  letter,  but  necessity  drove  him  to  that  lawyer  to 
conclude  his  arrangements  for  departure.  It  was  a  dif 
ferent  man  that  entered  the  lawyer's  office  this  time.  He 
gave  directions  for  the  disposition  of  Ilexhurst  and  the 
conversion  of  other  property  into  cash.  He  would  never 
live  on  the  place  again  under  any  circumstances. 

His  business  was  to  be  managed  by  the  old  legal  firm 
in  New  York. 

The  memorandum  was  completed  and  he  took  his  de 
parture. 

He  had  given  orders  for  flowers  and  ascertained  by 
telephone  that  they  were  ready.  At  3  o'clock  he  met 
Mary  driving  in  and  took  his  seat  beside  her  in  the  old 
family  carnage.  Her  dress  of  black  brought  out  the 


"WOMAN  WHAT  WAS  HE  TO  YOU?"  329 

pale,  sweet  face  in  all  its  beauty.  She  flushed  slightly  as 
he  greeted  her.  Within  the  vehicle  were  only  the  few 
late  roses  she  had  been  able  to  gather,  with  cedar  and 
uonimous.  But  they  drove  by  the  greenhouse  and  he 
rilled  the  carriage  with  the  choicest  productions  of  the 
florist,  and  then  gave  the  order  to  the  driver  to  proceed 
at  once  to  the  cemetery. 

Within  the  grounds,  where  many  monuments  marked 
the  last  resting-place  of  the  old  family,  was  the  plain 
newly  made  mound  covering  the  remains  of  friend  and 
father.  At  sight  of  it  Mary's  calmness  disappeared  and 
her  grief  overran  its  restraints.  Edward  stood  silent,  his 
face  averted. 

Presently  he  thought  of  the  flowers  and  brought  them 
to  her.  In  the  arrangement  of  these  the  bare  sod  disap 
peared  and  the  girl's  grief  was  calmed.  She  lingered  long 
about  the  spot,  and  before  she  left  it  knelt  in  silent 
prayer,  Edward  lifting  his  hat  and  waiting  with  bowed 
head. 

The  sad  ceremony  ended,  she  looked  to  him  and  he 
led  the  way  to  where  old  Isam  waited  with  the  carriage. 
He  sent  him  around  toward  Gerald's  grave,  under  a 
wide-spreading  live  oak,  while  they  went  afoot  by  the 
direct  way  impassable  for  vehicles.  They  reached  the 
parapet  and  would  have  crossed  it,  when  they  saw  kneel 
ing  at  the  head  of  the  grave  a  woman  dressed  in  black, 
seemingly  engaged  in  prayer. 

Edward  had  caused  to  be  placed  above  the  remains 
simple  marble  slab,  which  bore  the  brief  inscription: 

GERALD   MORGAN. 
Died    1888. 

They  watched  until  the  woman  arose  and  laid  a  wreath 
upon  the  slab.  When  at  last  she  turned  her  face  and  sur 
veyed  the  scene  they  saw  before  them,  pale  and  grief- 
stricken,  Gambia.  Edward  felt  the  scene  whirling  about 
him  and  his  tongue  paralyzed.  Gambia,  at  sight  of  them 
gave  way  again  to  a  grief  that  had  left  her  pale  and  hag 
gard,  and  could  only  extend  the  free  hand,  while  with 


330  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

the  other  she  sought  to  conceal  her  face.  Edward  came 
near,  his  voice  scarcely  audible. 

"Gambia!"  he  exclaimed  in  wonder;  "Gambia!"  she 
nodded  her  head. 

"Yes,  wretched,  unhappy  Gambia!" 

"Then,  madame,"  he  said,  with  deep  emotion,  point 
ing  to  the  grave  and  touching  her  arm,  "what  was  he  to 
you?"  She  looked  him  fairly  in  the  face  from  streaming 
eyes. 

"He  was  my  son!  It  cannot  harm  him  now.  Alas, 
poor  Gambia!" 

"Your  son!"  The  man  gazed  about  him  bewildered. 
"Your  son,  madame?  You  are  mistaken!  It  cannot 
be!" 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed;  "how  little  you  know.  It  can 
be — it  is  true!" 

"It  cannot  be;  it  cannot  be!"  the  words  of  the  horri 
fied  man  were  now  a  whisper. 

"Do  you  think  a  mother  does  not  know  her  off 
spring?  Your  talk  is  idle;  Gerald  Morgan  was  my  son. 
I  have  known,  John  Morgan  knew — " 

"But  Rita,"  he  said,  piteously. 

"Ah,  Rita,  poor  Rita,  she  could  not  know!" 

The  manner,  the  words,  the  tone  overwhelmed  him. 
He  turned  to  Mary  for  help  in  his  despair.  Almost  with 
out  sound  she  had  sunk  to  the  grass  and  now  lay  ex 
tended  at  full  length.  With  a  fierce  exclamation  Ed 
ward  rushed  to  her  and  lifted  the  little  figure  in  his  arms. 
Gambia  was  at  his  side. 

"What  is  this?  What  was  she  to  him?"  Some  ex 
planation  was  necessary  and  Edward's  presence  of  mind 
returned. 

"He  loved  her,"  he  said.  The  face  of  Gambia  grew  soft 
and  tender  and  she  spread  her  wrap  on  the  rustic  bench. 

"Place  her  here  and  bring  water.  Daughter,"  she  ex 
claimed,  kneeling  by  her  side,  "come,  come,  this  will 
never  do — "  The  girl's  eyes  opened  and  for  a  moment 
rested  in  wonder  upon  Gambia.  Then  she  remembered. 
A  strange  expression  settled  upon  her  face  as  she  gazed 
quickly  upon  Edward. 

"Take  me  home,  madame,"  she  said;  "take  me  home. 
I  am  deathly  ill." 


"WOMAN,  WHAT  WAS  HE  TO  YOU?"  331 

They  carried  her  to  the  carriage,  and,  entering,  Gambia 
took  the  little  head  in  her  lap.  Shocked  and  now  greatly 
alarmed,  Edward  gave  orders  to  the  driver  and  entered. 
It  was  a  long  and  weary  ride,  and  all  the  time  the  girl  lay 
silent  and  speechless  in  Gambia's  lap,  now  and  then  turn 
ing  upon  Edward  an  indescribable  look  that  cut  him  to 
the  heart. 

They  would  have  provided  for  her  in  the  city,  but  she 
would  not  hear  of  it.  Her  agitation  became  so  great  that 
Edward  finally  directed  the  driver  to  return  to  the  hall. 
All  the  way  back  the  older  woman  murmured  words  of 
comfort  and  cheer,  but  the  girl  only  wept  and  her  slender 
form  shook  with  sobs.  And  it  was  not  for  herself  that 
she  grieved. 

And  so  they  came  to  the  house,  and  here  Mary,  by  a 
supreme  effort,  was  able  to  walk  with  assistance  and  to 
enter  without  disturbing  the  household.  Gambia  sup 
ported  her  as  they  reached  the  hall  and  to  the  room  that 
had  been  Mary's  all  her  life — the  room  opposite  her  moth 
ers.  There  in  silence  she  assisted  the  girl  to  the  bed. 
From  somewhere  came  Molly,  the  maid,  and  together 
using  the  remedies  that  women  know  so  well  they  made 
her  comfortable.  No  one  in  the  house  had  been  dis 
turbed,  and  then  as  Mary  slept  Gambia  went  out  and 
found  her  way  to  the  side  of  Mrs.  Montjoy  and  felt  the 
bereaved  woman's  arms  about  her. 

"You  have  reconsidered,  and  wisely,"  said  Mrs.  Mont- 
joy,  when  the  first  burst  of  emotion  was  over.  "I  am 
glad  you  have  come — where  is  Mary?" 

"She  was  fatigued  from  the  excitement  and  long  drive 
and  is  in  her  room.  I  met  her  in  town  and  came  with  her. 
But  madame,  think  not  of  me;  you  are  now  the  sufferer; 
my  troubles  are  old.  But  you — what  can  I  say  to  com 
fort  you?" 

"I  am  at  peace,  my  child;  God's  will  be  done.  When 
you  can  say  that  you  will  not  feel  even  the  weight  of  your 
sorrows.  Life  is  not  long,  at  best,  and  mine  must  neces 
sarily  be  short.  Some  day  I  will  see  again."  Gambia 
bowed  her  head  until  it  rested  upon  the  hand  that  clasped 
hers.  In  the  presence  of  such  trust  and  courage  she  was 
a  child. 


332  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"My  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Montjoy,  after  a  silence,  her 
mind  reverting  to  her  visitor's  remark;  "she  is  not  ill?" 

"Not  seriously,  madame,  but  still  she  is  not  well." 

"Then  I  will  go  to  her  if  you  will  lend  me  your  aid.  I 
am  not  yet  accustomed  to  finding  my  way.  I  suppose  I 
will  have  no  trouble  after  awhile/'  The  strong  arm  of 
the  younger  woman  clasped  and  guided  her  upon  the 
little  journey,  and  the  mother  took  the  place  of  the  maid. 
Tea  was  brought  to  them  and  in  the  half-lighted  room 
they  sat  by  the  now  sleeping  figure  on  the  bed,  and  whis 
pered  of  Gambia's  past  and  future.  The  hours  passed. 
The  house  had  grown  still  and  Molly  had  been  sent  to 
tell  Edward  of  the  situation  and  give  him  his  lamp. 

But  Edward  was  not  alone.  The  general  had  ridden 
over  to  inquire  after  his  neighbors  and  together  they  sat 
upon  the  veranda  and  talked.  That  is,  the  general  talked, 
and  Edward  listened  or  seemed  to  listen.  The  rush  of 
thoughts,  the  realization  that  had  come  over  him  at  the 
cemetery,  now  that  necessity  for  immediate  action  had 
passed  with  his  charge,  returned.  Gambia  had  been 
found  weeping  over  her  son,  and  that  son  was  Gerald. 
True  or  untrue,  it  was  fatal  to  him  if  Gambia  was  con 
vinced. 

But  it  could  not  be  less  than  true;  he,  Edward,  was  an 
outcast  upon  the  face  of  the  earth;  his  dream  was  over; 
through  these  bitter  reflections  the  voice  of  the  general 
rose  and  fell  monotonously,  as  he  spoke  feelingly  of  the 
dead  friend  whom  he  had  known  since  childhood  and 
told  of  their  long  associations  and  adventures  in  the  war. 
And  then,  as  Edward  sought  to  bring  himself  back  to 
the  present,  he  found  himself  growing  hot  and  cold  and 
his  heart  beating  violently ;  the  consequences  of  the  reve 
lation  made  in  the  cemetery  had  extended  no  further 
than  himself  and  his  own  people,  but  Gambia  was  Marion 
Evan!  And  her  father  was  there,  by  him,  ignorant  that 
in  the  house  was  the  daughter  dead  to  him  for  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  He  could  not  control  an  excla 
mation.  The  speaker  paused  and  looked  at  him. 

"Did  you  speak?"    The  general  waited  courteously. 

"Did  I?     It  must  have  been  involuntarily — a  habit! 


"WOMAN,  WHAT  WAS   HE  TO  YOU?"  333 

You  were  saying  that  the  colonel  led  his  regiment  at 
Malvern  Hill."  Evan  regarded  him  curiously. 

"Yes,  I  mentioned  that  some  time  ago.  He  was 
wounded  and  received  the  praise  of  Jackson  as  he  was 
borne  past  him.  I  think  Montjoy  considered  that  the 
proudest  moment  of  his  life.  When  Jackson  praised  a 
man  he  was  apt  to  be  worthy  of  it.  He  praised  me  once," 
he  said,  half-smiling  over  the  scene  in  mind. 

But  Edward  had  again  lost  the  thread  of  the  narrative. 
Gambia  had  returned;  a  revelation  would  follow;  the 
general  would  meet  his  daughter,  and  over  the  grave  of 
Gerald  the  past  would  disappear  from  their  lives.  What 
was  to  become  of  him?  He  remembered  that  John  Mor 
gan  had  corresponded  with  her,  and  communicated  per 
sonally.  She  must  know  his  history.  In  the  coming 
denouement  there  would  be  a  shock  for  him.  He  would 
see  these  friends  torn  from  him,  not  harshly  nor  unkindly, 
but  between  them  and  him  would  fall  the  iron  rule  of 
caste,  which  has  never  been  broken  in  the  south — the 
race  law,  which  no  man  can  override.  With  something 
like  a  panic  within  he  decided  at  once.  He  would  not 
witness  the  meeting.  He  would  give  them  no  chance  to 
touch  him  by  sympathetic  pity  and  by — aversion.  It 
should  all  come  to  him  by  letter,  while  he  was  far  away! 
His  affairs  were  in  order.  The  next  day  he  would  be 
gone. 

"General,"  he  said,  "will  you  do  me  a  favor?  I  must 
return  to  the  city;  my  coming  was  altogether  a  matter 
of  accident,  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  inconvenience  our 
friends  here  at  this  time  to  send  me  back.  Let  me  have 
your  horse  and  I  will  send  him  to  you  in  the  morning." 

The  abrupt  interruption  rilled  the  old  man  with  surprise. 

"Why,  certainly,  if  you  must  go.  But  I  thought  you 
had  no  idea  of  returning — is  it  imperative?" 

"Imperative.  I  am  going  away  from  the  city  to-mor 
row,  and  there"  are  yet  matters — you  understand,  and 
Virdow  is  expecting  me.  I  trust  it  will  not  inconvenience 
you  greatly.  It  would  be  well,  probably,  if  one  of  us 
stayed  to-night;  this  sudden  illness — the  family's  condi 
tion—" 

"Inconvenience!    Nonsense!    If  you  must  go,  why,  the 


334  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

• 

horse  is  yours  of  course  as  long  as  you  need  him."  But 
still  perplexed  the  general  waited  in  silence  for  a  more 
definite  explanation.  Edward  was  half-facing  the  door 
way  and  the  lighted  hall  was  exposed  to  him,  but  the 
shadow  of  the  porch  hid  him  from  any  one  within.  It 
was  while  they  sat  thus  that  the  old  man  felt  a  hand  upon 
his  arm  and  a  grasp  that  made  him  wince.  Looking  up 
he  saw  the  face  of  his  companion  fixed  on  some  object 
in  the  hall,  the  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets.  Glancing 
back  he  became  the  witness  of  a  picture  that  almost 
caused  his  heart  to  stand  still. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 
FRAGMENTARY    LIFE    RECORDS. 

The  records  of  John  Morgan's  life  are  fragmentary. 
It  was  only  by  joining  the  pieces  and  filling  in  the  gaps 
that  his  friends  obtained  a  clear  and  rounded  conception 
of  his  true  character  and  knew  at  last  the  real  man. 

Born  about  1820,  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  and  influ 
ential  father,  his  possibilities  seemed  almost  unlimited. 
To  such  a  youth  the  peculiar  system  of  the  south  gave 
advantages  not  at  that  time  afforded  by  any  other  section, 
The  south  was  approaching  the  zenith  of  its  power;  its 
slaves  did  the  work  of  the  whole  people,  leaving  their 
owners  leisure  for  study,  for  travel  and  for  display.  Poli 
tics  furnished  the  popular  field  for  endeavor;  young  men 
trained  to  the  bar,  polished  by  study  and  foreign  travel 
and  inspired  by  lofty  ideals  of  government,  threw  them 
selves  into  public  life,  with  results  that  have  become  now 
a  part  of  history. 

At  22,  John  Morgan  was  something  more  than  a  mere 
promise.  He  had  graduated  with  high  honors  at  the  Vir 
ginia  University  and  returning  home  had  engaged  in  the 
practice  of  law — his  maiden  speech,  delivered  in  a  mur 
der  case,  winning  for  him  a  wide  reputation.  But  at  that 
critical  period  a  change  came  over  him.  To  the  surprise 


FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORDS,  335 

of  his  contemporaries  he  neglected  his  growing  practice, 
declined  legislative  honors  and  gradually  withdrew  to 
the  quiet  of  Ilexhurst,  remaining  in  strict  retirement  with 
his  mother. 

The  life  of  this  gentlewoman  had  never  been  a  very 
happy  one;  refined  and  delicate,  she  was  in  sharp  con 
trast  with  her  husband,  who,  from  the  handsome,  dark- 
haired  gallant  she  first  met  at  the  White  Sulphur  Springs, 
soon  developed  into  a  generous  liver,  with  a  marked 
leaning  towards  strong  drink,  fox-hunting  and  cards.  As 
the  wife,  in  the  crucible  of  life,  grew  to  pure  gold,  the 
grosser  pleasures  developed  the  elder  Morgan  out  of  all 
likeness  to  the  figure  around  which  clung  her  girlish 
memories. 

But  Providence  had  given  to  her  a  boy,  and  in  him 
there  was  a  promise  of  happier  days.  He  grew  up  under 
her  care,  passionately  devoted  to  the  beautiful  mother, 
and  his  triumphs  at  college  and  at  the  bar  brought  back 
to  her  something  of  the  happiness  she  had  known  in 
dreams  only. 

The  blow  came  with  the  arrival  of  Rita  Morgan's  moth 
er.  From  that  time  John  Morgan  devoted  himself  to  the 
lonely  wife,  avoiding  the  society  of  both  sexes.  His  mor 
bid  imagination  pictured  his  mother  and  himself  as  dis 
graced  in  the  eyes  of  the  public,  unconscious  of  the  fact 
that  the  public  had  but  little  interest  in  the  domestic  situ 
ation  at  Ilexhurst,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  truth.  He 
lived  his  quiet  life  by  her  side  in  the  little  room  at  home, 
and  when  at  last,  hurt  by  his  horse,  the  father  passed 
away,  he  closed  up  the  house  and  took  his  mother  abroad 
for  a  stay  of  several  years.  When  they  returned  life  went 
on  very  much  as  before. 

But  of  the  man  who  came  back  from  college  little  was 
left  aside  from  an  indomitable  will  and  a  genius  for  work. 
He  threw  himself  into  the  practice  of  his  profession  again, 
with  a  feverish  desire  for  occupation,  and,  bringing  to 
his  aid  a  mind  well  stored  by  long  years  of  reflection  and 
reading,  soon  secured  a  large  and  lucrative  practice. 

His  fancy  was  for  criminal  law.  No  pains,  no  expense 
was  too  great  for  him  where  a  point  was  to  be  made. 
Some  of  his  witnesses  in  noted  cases  cost  him  for  travel- 


336  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

ing  expenses  and  detectives  double  his  fee.  He  kept  up 
the  fight  with  a  species  of  fierce  joy,  his  only  moments  of 
elation,  as  far  as  the  public  knew,  being  the  moments  of 
victory. 

So  it  was  that  at  40  years  of  age  John  Morgan  found 
himself  with  a  reputation  extending  far  beyond  the  state 
and  with  a  profession  that  left  him  but  little  leisure.  It 
was  about  this  time  he  accidentally  met  Marion  Evan,  a 
mere  girl,  and  felt  the  hidden  springs  of  youth  rise  in  his 
heart.  Marion  Evan  received  the  attentions  of  the  great 
criminal  lawyer  without  suspicion  of  their  meaning. 

When  it  developed  that  he  was  deeply  interested  in 
her  she  was  astonished  and  then  touched.  It  was  until 
the  end  a  matter  of  wonder  to  her  that  John  Morgan 
should  have  found  anything  in  her  to  admire  and  love, 
but  those  who  looked  on  knowingly  were  not  surprised. 
Of  gentle  ways  and  clinging,  dependent  nature,  varied 
by  flashes  of  her  father's  fire  and  spirit,  she  presented 
those  variable  moods  well  calculated  to  dazzle  and  im 
press  a  man  of  Morgan's  temperament.  He  entered 
upon  his  courtship  with  the  same  carefulness  and  deter 
mination  that  marked  his  legal  practice,  and  with  the 
aid  of  his  wealth  and  reborn  eloquence  carried  the  citadel 
of  her  maiden  heart  by  storm.  With  misgivings  Albert 
Evan  yielded  his  consent. 

But  Marion  Evan's  education  was  far  from  complete. 
The  mature  lover  wished  his  bride  to  have  every  accom 
plishment  that  could  add  to  her  pleasure  in  life;  he  in 
tended  to  travel  for  some  years  and  she  was  not  at  that 
time  sufficiently  advanced  in  the  languages  to  interpret 
the  records  of  the  past.  Her  art  was  of  course  rudi 
mentary.  Only  in  vocal  music  was  she  distinguished; 
already  that  voice  which  was  to  develop  such  surprising 
powers  spoke  its  thrilling  message  to  those  who  could 
understand,  and  John  Morgan  was  one  of  these. 

So  it  was  determined  that  Marion  should  for  one  year 
at  least  devote  herself  to  study  and  then  the  marriage 
would  take  place.  Where  to  send  her  was  the  important 
question,  and  upon  the  decision  hinges  this  narrative. 

Remote  causes  shape  our  destinies.  That  summer 
John  Morgan  took  his  mother  abroad  for  the  last  time 


FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORDS.  337 

and  in  Paris  chance  gave  him  acquaintance  with  Gaspard 
Levigne,  a  man  nearly  as  old  as  himself.  Morgan  had 
been  touched  and  impressed  by  the  unchanging  sadness 
of  a  face  that  daily  looked  into  his  at  their  hotel,  but  it  is 
likely  that  he  would  have  carried  it  in  memory  for  a  few 
weeks  only  had  not  the  owner,  who  occupied  rooms  near 
his  own,  played  the  violin  one  night  while  he  sat  dream 
ing  of  home  and  the  young  girl  who  had  given  him  her 
promise.  He  felt  that  the  hidden  musician  was  saying 
for  him  that  which  had  been  crying  out  for  expression  in 
his  heart  all  his  life.  Upon  the  impulse  of  the  moment 
he  entered  this  stranger's  room  and  extended  his  hand. 
Gaspard  Levigne  took  it.  They  were  friends. 

During  their  stay  in  Paris  the  two  men  became  almost 
inseparable  companions.  One  day  Gaspard  was  in  the 
parlor  of  his  new  friend,  when  John  Morgan  uncovered 
upon  the  table  a  marble  bust  of  his  fiancee  and  briefly  ex 
plained  the  situation.  The  musician  lifted  it  in  wonder 
and  studied  its  perfections  with  breathless  interest.  From 
that  time  he  never  tired  of  the  beautiful  face,  but  always 
his  admiration  was  mute.  His  lips  seemed  to  lose  their 
power. 

The  climax  came  when  John  Morgan,  entering  the 
dim  room  one  evening,  found  Gaspard  Levigne  with  his 
face  in  his  hands  kneeling  before  the  marble,  convulsed 
with  grief.  And  then  little  by  little  he  told  his  story.  He 
was  of  noble  blood,  the  elder  son  of  a  family,  poor  but 
proud  and  exclusive.  Unto  him  had  descended,  from  an 
Italian  ancestor,  the  genius  of  musical  composition  and 
a  marvelous  technique,  while  his  brother  seemed  to  in 
herit  the  pride  and  arrogance  of  the  Silesian  side  of  the 
house,  with  about  all  the  practical  sense  and  business 
ability  that  had  been  won  and  transmitted. 

He  had  fallen  blindly  in  love  with  a  young  girl  beneath 
him  in  the  social  scale,  and  whose  only  dowry  was  a  pure 
heart  and  singularly  perfect  beauty.  The  discovery  of 
this  situation  filled  the  family  with  alarm  and  strenuous 
efforts  were  made  to  divert  the  infatuated  man,  but  with 
out  changing  his  purpose.  Pressure  was  brought  to  bear 
upon  the  girl's  parents,  with  better  success. 

Nothing  now  remained  for  Gaspard  but  an  elopement, 
22 


338  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

and  this  he  planned.  He  took  his  brother  into  his  con 
fidence  and  was  pleased  to  find  him  after  many  refusals 
a  valuable  second.  The  elopement  took  place  and  as 
sisted  by  the  brother  he  came  to  Paris.  There  his  wife 
had  died  leaving  a  boy,  now  nearly  2  years  old. 

Then  came  the  denouement;  the  marriage  arranged 
for  him  had  been  a  mockery. 

It  was  a  fearful  blow.  He  did  not  return  to  his  home. 
Upon  him  had  been  saddled  the  whole  crime. 

When  the  story  was  ended  Gaspard  went  to  his  room 
and  brought  back  a  little  picture  of  the  girl,  which  he 
placed  by  the  marble  bust.  Morgan  read  his  meaning 
there;  the  two  faces  seemed  identical.  The  picture  would 
have  stood  for  a  likeness  of  Marion  Evan,  in  her  father's 
hands. 

The  conduct  of  Gaspard  Levigne  upon  the  discovery 
of  the  cruel  fraud  was  such  as  won  the  instant  sympathy 
of  the  American,  whose  best  years  had  been  sacrificed 
for  his  mother.  The  musician  had  not  returned  to  Bres- 
lau  and  exposed  the  treachery  of  the  brother  who  was 
the  idol  of  his  aged  parents;  he  suffered  in  silence,  and 
cared  for  the  child  in  an  institution  near  Paris.  But  John 
Morgan  went  and  quietly  verified  the  facts.  He  engaged 
the  ablest  counsel  and  did  his  best  to  find  a  way  to  right 
the  wrong. 

Then  came  good  Mrs.  Morgan,  who  took  the  waif  to 
her  heart.  He  passed  from  his  father's  arms,  his  only 
inheritance  a  mother's  picture,  of  which  his  own  face  was 
the  miniature. 

Months  passed;  Gaspard  Levigne  learned  English 
readily,  and  one  more  result  of  the  meeting  in  Paris  was 
that  John  Morgan  upon  returning  to  America  had, 
through  influential  friends,  obtained  for  Levigne  a  lucra 
tive  position  in  a  popular  American  institution,  where  in 
strumental  and  vocal  music  were  specialties. 

It  was  to  this  institution  that  Marion  Evan  was  sent, 
with  results  already  known. 

The  shock  to  John  Morgan,  when  he  received  from 
Marion  a  pitiful  letter,  telling  of  her  decision  and  mar 
riage,  well-nigh  destroyed  him.  The  mind  does  not  rally 
and  reactions  are  uncertain  at  40.  In  the  moment  of  his 


FRAGMENTARY  LIFE  RECORDS.  339 

despair  he  had  torn  up  her  letters  and  hurled  her  like 
ness  in  marble  far  out  to  the  deepest  part  of  the  lake. 
Pride  alone  prevented  him  following  it.  And  in  this 
hour  of  gloom  the  one  remaining  friend,  his  mother, 
passed  from  life. 

The  public  never  knew  of  his  sufferings ;  he  drew  the 
mantle  of  silence  a  little  closer  around  him  and  sunk 
deeper  into  his  profession.  He  soon  became  known  as 
well  for  his  eccentricities  as  for  his  genius ;  and  presently 
the  inherited  tendency  toward  alcoholic  drinks  found  him 
an  easy  victim.  Another  crisis  in  his  life  came  a  year 
after  the  downfall  of  his  air  castle,  and  just  as  the  south 
was  preparing  to  enter  upon  her  fatal  struggle. 

The  mother  of  Rita  had  passed  away,  and  so  had  the 
young  woman's  husband.  Rita  had  but  recently  re 
turned  to  Ilexhurst,  when  one  night  she  came  into  his 
presence  drenched  with  rain  and  terrorized  by  the  fierce 
ness  of  an  electrical  storm  then  raging.  Speechless  from 
exhaustion  and  excitement  she  could  only  beckon  him 
to  follow.  Upon  the  bed  in  her  room,  out  in  the  broad 
back  yard,  now  sharing  with  its  occupant  the  mud  and 
water  of  the  highway,  her  face  white  and  her  disordered 
hair  clinging  about  her  neck  and  shoulders,  lay  the  in 
sensible  form  of  the  only  girl  he  had  ever  loved — Marion 
Evan,  as  he  still  thought  of  her.  He  approached  the  bed 
and  lifted  her  cold  hands  and  called  her  by  endearing 
names,  but  she  did  not  answer  him.  Rita,  the  struggle 
over,  had  sunk  into  semiconsciousness  upon  the  floor. 

When  the  family  physician  arrived  John  Morgan  had 
placed  Rita  upon  the  bed  and  had  borne  the  other  woman 
in  his  arms  to  the  mother's  room  upstairs,  and  stood  wait 
ing  at  the  door.  While  the  genial  old  practitioner  was 
working  to  restore  consciousness  to  the  young  woman 
there,  a  summons  several  times  repeated  was  heard  at 
the  front  door.  Morgan  went  in  person  and  admitted  a 
stranger,  who  presented  a  card  that  bore  the  stamp  of  a 
foreign  detective  bureau.  Speaking  in  French  the  law 
yer  bravely  welcomed  him  and  led  the  way  to  the  library. 
The  detective  opened  the  interview  : 

"Have  you  received  my  report  of  the  I4th  inst,  M. 
Morgan?" 


340  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"Yes.    What  have  you  additional?" 

'This:  Mme.  Levigne  is  with  her  husband  and  now  in 
this  city."  Morgan  nodded  his  head. 

"So  I  have  been  informed."  He  went  to  the  desk  and 
wrote  out  a  check.  "When  do  you  propose  returning?" 

"As  soon  as  possible,  monsieur;  to-morrow  if  it  pleases 
you." 

"I  will  call  upon  you  in  the  morning;  to-night  I  have 
company  that  demands  my  whole  time  and  attention.  If 
I  fail,  here  is  your  check.  You  have  been  very  SUCT 
cessful." 

"Monsieur  is  very  kind.  I  have  not  lost  sight  of  Mme. 
Levigne  in  nearly  a  year  until  to-night.  Both  she  and 
her  husband  have  left  their  hotel ;  temporarily  only  I  pre 
sume."  The  two  men  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Upstairs  the  physician  met  Morgan  returning.  "The 
lady  will  soon  be  all  right;  she  has  rallied  and  as  soon 
as  she  gets  under  the  influence  of  the  opiate  I  have  given 
and  into  dry  clothes,  will  be  out  of  danger.  But  the 
woman  in  the  servant's  house  is,  I  am  afraid,  in  a  critical 
condition." 

"Go  to  her,  please,"  said  Morgan,  quickly.  Then  en 
tering  the  room  he  took  a  seat  by  the  side  of  the  young 
woman — her  hand  in  his.  Marion  looked  upon  his  grave 
face  in  wonder  and  confusion.  Neither  spoke.  Her  eyes 
closed  at  last  in  slumber. 

Then  came  Mammie  Hester,  the  old  woman  who  had 
nursed  him,  one  of  those  family  servants  of  the  old  south, 
whose  lips  never  learned  how  to  betray  secrets. 

The  sun  rose  grandly  on  the  morning  that  Marion  left 
Ilexhurst.  She  pushed  back  her  heavy  veil,  letting  its 
splendor  light  up  her  pale  face  and  gave  her  hand  in  sad 
farewell  to  John  Morgan.  Its  golden  beams  almost 
glorified  the  countenance  of  the  man;  or  was  it  the  light 
from  a  great  soul  shining  through? 

"A  mother's  prayers,"  she  said  brokenly.  "They  are 
all  that  I  can  give." 

"God  bless  and  protect  you  till  we  meet  again,"  he 
said,  gently. 

She  looked  long  and  sadly  toward  the  eastern  horizon 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  341 

in  whose  belt  of  gray  woodland  lay  her  childhood  home, 
lowered  her  veil  and  hurried  away.  A  generation  would 
pass  before  her  feet  returned  upon  that  gravel  walk. 


CHAPTER  LVIL 

"THE   LAST   SCENE  OF   ALL." 

Mary  slept. 

The  blind  woman,  who  had  for  awhile  sat  silent  by  her 
side,  slowly  stroking  and  smoothing  the  girl's  extended 
arm,  nodded,  her  chin  resting  upon  her  breast. 

Gambia  alone  was  left  awake  in  the  room,  her  mind 
busy  with  its  past.  The  light  was  strong;  noiselessly 
she  went  to  the  little  table  to  lower  it.  There,  before  her, 
lay  a  violin's  antique  case.  As  her  gaze  fell  upon  it,  the 
flame  sank  under  her  touch,  leaving  the  room  almost  in 
the  shadow.  The  box  was  rounded  at  the  ends  and  in 
laid,  the  center  design  being  a  curiously  interwoven  mon 
ogram.  Smothering  an  exclamation,  she  seized  it  in  her 
arms  and  listened,  looking  cautiously  upon  her  compan 
ions.  The  elder  woman  lifted  her  head  and  turned  her 
sightless  eyes  toward  the  light,  then  passed  into  sleep 
again. 

Gambia  went  back  eagerly  to  the  box  again  and  tried 
its  intricate  fastenings;  but  in  the  dim  light  they  resisted 
her  ringers,  and  she  dare  not  turn  up  the  flame  again. 

From  the  veranda  in  front  came  the  murmur  of  men's 
voices;  the  house  was  silent.  Bearing  the  precious  bur 
den  Gambia  went  quickly  to  the  hallway  and  paused  for 
a  moment  under  the  arch  that  divided  it.  Overhead,  sus 
pended  by  an  invisible  wire,  was  a  snow-white  pigeon 
with  wings  outspread;  behind  was  the  open  back  door 
and  across  the  vista  outside  swayed  in  the  gentle  breeze 
the  foliage  of  the  trees.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  listen 
ing;  and  such  was  the  picture  presented  to  Edward  as 
he  clutched  the  arm  of  his  companion  and  leaned  for 
ward  with  strained  eyes  gazing  into  the  light. 

Aided  by  the  adjuncts  of  the  scene,  he  recognized  at 


342  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

once  a  familiar  dream.  Such  was  the  dream  picture,  but 
in  place  of  the  girl's  was  now  a  woman's  face. 

Another  caught  a  deeper  meaning  at  the  same  instant, 
as  the  general's  suppressed  breathing  betrayed. 

Gambia  heard  nothing;  her  face  was  pale,  her  hand 
trembling.  She  dropped  to  her  knees  and  laid  the  case 
upon  the  floor.  In  the  light  descending  upon  her  she 
found  the  secret  fastenings  and  the  lid  opened. 

Then  the  two  men  beheld  a  strange  thing;  the  object 
of  that  nervous  action  was  not  the  violin  itself.  A  string 
accidentally  touched  by  her  sparkling  ring  gave  out  a 
single  minor  note  that  startled  her,  but  only  for  a  second 
did  she  pause  and  look  around.  Pressing  firmly  upon  a 
spot  in  the  inner  side  of  the  lid  she  drew  out  a  little  panel 
of  wood  and  from  the  shallow  cavity  exposed  lifted 
quickly  several  folded  papers,  which  she  opened.  Then, 
half  rising,  she  wavered  and  sank  back  fainting  upon  the 
floor.  The  silence  was  broken.  A  cry  burst  from  the 
lips  of  the  old  general. 

"Marion!  My  child!"  In  an  instant  he  was  by  her 
side  lifting  and  caressing  her.  "Speak  to  me,  daughter," 
he  said.  "It  has  been  long,  so  long.  That  face,  that  face! 
Child,  it  is  your  mother's  as  I  saw  it  last!  Marion,  look 
up;  it  is  I,  your  father."  And  then  he  exclaimed  de 
spairingly,  as  she  did  not  answer  him,  "She  is  dead!" 

"It  is  not  serious,  general,"  said  Edward  hurriedly. 
"See,  she  is  reviving."  Gambia  steadied  herself  by  a 
supreme  effort  and  thrust  back  the  form  that  was  sup 
porting  her. 

"Who  calls  Marion?"  she  cried  wildly.  "Marion  Evan 
is  dead !  Gambia  is  dead !  I  am  the  Countess  Levigne." 
Her  voice  rang  out  in  the  hall  and  her  clenched  hand  held 
aloft,  as  though  she  feared  they  might  seize  them,  the 
papers  she  had  plucked  from  the  violin  case.  Then  her 
eyes  met  the  general's;  she  paused  in  wonder  and  looked 
longingly  into  his  aged  face.  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whis 
per:  "Father,  father!  Is  it  indeed  you?  You  at  last?" 
Clinging  to  the  hands  extended  toward  her  she  knelt  and 
buried  her  face  in  them,  her  form  shaking  with  sobs.  The 
old  man's  tall  figure  swayed  and  trembled. 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  343 

"Not  there,  Marion,  my  child,  not  there!  Tis  I  who 
should  kneel!  God  forgive  me,  it  was  I  who — " 

"Hush,  father,  hush!  The  blame  was  mine.  But  I 
have  paid  for  it  with  agony,  with  the  better  years  of 
my  life. 

"But  I  could  not  come  back  until  I  came  as  the  wife  of 
the  man  I  loved;  I  would  not  break  your  heart.  See!  I 
have  the  papers.  It  was  my  husband's  violin."  She  hid 
her  face  in  his  bosom  and  let  the  tears  flow  unchecked. 

Edward  was  standing,  white  and  silent,  gazing  upon 
the  scene ;  he  could  not  tear  himself  away.  The  general, 
his  voice  unsteady,  saw  him  at  last.  A  smile  broke 
through  his  working  features  and  shone  in  his  tearful 
eyes: 

"Edward,  my  boy,  have  you  no  word?  My  child  has 
come  home!"  Marion  lifted  her  face  and  drew  herself 
from  the  sheltering  arms  with  sudden  energy. 

"Edward,"  she  said,  gently  and  lovingly.  "Edward!" 
Her  eyes  grew  softer  and  seemed  to  caress  him  with  their 
glances.  She  went  up  to  him  and  placed  both  hands  upon 
his  shoulders.  "His  child,  and  your  mother!" 

"My  mother,  my  mother!"  The  words  were  whispers. 
His  voice  seemed  to  linger  upon  them. 

"Yes!  Gambia,  the  unhappy  Marion,  the  Countess 
Levigne  and  your  mother!  No  longer  ashamed  to  meet 
you,  no  longer  an  exile !  Your  mother,  free  to  meet  your 
eyes  without  fear  of  reproach!" 

She  was  drawing  his  cheek  to  hers  as  she  spoke.  The 
general  had  come  nearer  and  now  she  placed  the  young 
man's  hand  in  his. 

"But,"  said  Edward,  "Gerald!  You  called  him  your 
son!"  She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes  and  turned 
away  quickly.  "How  can  it  be?  Tell  me  the  truth?" 
She  looked  back  to  him  then  in  a  dazed  way.  Finally  a 
suspicion  of  his  difficulty  came  to  her.  "He  was  your 
twin  brother.  Did  you  not  know?  Alas,  poor  Gerald!" 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  man,  "it  was  then  true!" 

Edward  took  her  hand. 

"Mother,"  he  said  softly,  lifting  her  face  to  his,  "Gerald 
is  at  peace.  Let  me  fulfill  all  the  hopes  you  cherished 
for  both!" 


344  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

"God  has  showered  blessings  upon  me  this  night," 
said  the  general  brokenly.  "Edward!"  The  two  men 
clasped  hands  again  and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 
And,  radiant  by  their  side,  was  the  face  of  Gambia! 

At  this  moment  Mary,  who  had  been  awakened  by 
their  excited  voices,  her  hand  outstretched  toward  the 
wall  along  which  she  had  crept,  came  and  stood  near 
them,  gazing  in  wonder  upon  their  beaming  faces.  With 
a  bound  Edward  reached  her  side  and  with  an  arm  about 
her  came  to  Gambia. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "here  is  your  daughter."  As  Gam 
bia  clasped  her  lovingly  to  her  bosom  he  acquainted 
Mary  with  what  had  occurred.  And  then,  happy  in  her 
wonder  and  smiles,  Edward  and  Mary  turned  away  and 
discussed  the  story  of  Gambia's  life  with  the  now  fully 
awakened  little  mother. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "I  may  ask  of  you  this  precious 
life  and  be  your  son  indeed!"  Mary's  head  was  in  her 
mother's  lap. 

"She  has  loved  you  a  long  time,  Edward;  she  is  al 
ready  yours." 

Presently  he  went  upon  the  veranda,  where  father  and 
daughter  were  exchanging  holy  confidences,  and,  sitting 
by  his  mother's  side,  heard  the  particulars  of  her  life 
abroad  and  bitter  experience. 

"When  Mr.  Morgan  went  to  you,  father,  and  stated  a 
hypothetical  case  and  offered  to  find  me,  and  you,  out 
raged,  suffering,  declared  that  I  could  only  return  when 
I  had  proofs  of  my  marriage,  I  was  without  them.  Mr. 
Morgan  sent  me  money  to  pay  our  expenses  home — 
Gaspard's  and  mine — and  we  did  come,  he  unwilling  and 
fearing  violence,  for  dissipation  had  changed  his  whole 
nature.  Then,  he  had  been  informed  of  my  one-time  en 
gagement  to  Mr.  Morgan,  and  he  was  well  acquainted 
with  that  gentleman  and  indebted  to  him  for  money 
loaned  upon  several  occasions.  He  came  to  America 
with  me  upon  Mr.  Morgan's  guaranty,  the  sole  condition 
imposed  upon  him  being  that  he  should  bring  proofs  of 
our  marriage;  and  had  he  continued  to  rely  upon  that 
guaranty,  had  he  kept  his  word,  there  would  have  been 
no  trouble.  But  on  the  day  we  reached  this  city  he  gave 


'THE  LAiST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  345 

way  to  temptation  again  and  remembered  all  my  threats 
to  leave  him.  In  our  final  interview  he  became  suddenly 
jealous,  declared  that  there  was  a  plot  to  separate  us,  and 
expressed  a  determination  to  destroy  the  proofs. 

"It  was  then  that  I  determined  to  act,  and  hazarded 
everything  upon  a  desperate  move.  I  resolved  to  seize 
my  husband's  violin,  not  knowing  where  his  papers  were, 
and  hold  it  as  security  for  my  proofs.  I  thought  the  plan 
would  succeed;  did  not  his  love  for  that  instrument  ex 
ceed  all  other  passions?  I  had  written  to  Rita,  engaging 
to  meet  her  on  a  certain  night  at  a  livery  stable,  where  we 
were  to  take  a  buggy  and  proceed  to  Ilexhurst.  The 
storm  prevented.  Gaspard  had  followed  me,  and  at  the 
church  door  tore  the  instrument  from  my  arms  and  left 
me  insensible.  Rita  carried  me  in  her  strong  arms  three 
miles  to  Ilexhurst,  and  it  cost  her  the  life  of  the  child 
that  was  born  and  died  that  night. 

"Poor,  poor  Rita!  She  herself  had  been  all  but  dead 
when  my  boys  were  born  a  week  later,  and  the  idea  that 
one  of  them  was  her  own  was  the  single  hallucination 
of  her  mind.  The  boys  were  said  to  somewhat  resemble 
her.  Rita's  mother  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  Mrs. 
Morgan's  family,  as  you  have  perhaps  heard,  and  Mrs. 
Morgan  was  related  to  our  family,  so  the  resemblance 
may  be  explained  in  that  way.  Mr.  Morgan  never  could 
clear  up  this  hallucination  of  Rita's,  and  so  the  matter 
rested  that  way.  It  could  do  no  harm  under  the  circum 
stances,  and  might — " 

"No  harm?"    Edward  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"No  harm.  You,  Edward,  were  sent  away,  and  it  was 
early  seen  that  poor  Gerald  would  be  delicate  and  prob 
ably  an  invalid.  For  my  troubles,  my  flight,  had — .  The 
poor  woman  gave  her  life  to  the  care  of  my  children. 
Heaven  bless  her  forever!" 

Gambia  waited  in  silence  a  moment  and  then  con 
tinued: 

"As  soon  as  I  could  travel  I  made  a  business  transac 
tion  of  it,  and  borrowed  money  of  my  friend,  John  Mor 
gan.  He  had  acquainted  me  with  the  conditions  upon 
which  I  would  be  received  at  home;  and  now  it  was  im 
possible  for  me  to  meet  them.  Gaspard  was  gone.  I 


346  SONS   AND  FATHERS. 

thought  I  could  find  him ;  I  never  did,  until  blind,  poor, 
aged  and  dying,  he  sent  for  me." 

"John  Morgan  was  faithful.  He  secured  vocal  teach 
ers  for  me  in  Paris  and  then  an  engagement  to  sing  in 
public.  I  sang,  and  from  that  night  my  money  troubles 
ended. 

''Mr.  Morgan  stayed  by  me  in  Paris  until  my  career 
was  assured.  Then,  in  obedience  to  his  country's  call, 
he  came  back  here,  running  the  blockade,  and  fought  up 
to  Appomattox." 

"As  gallant  a  fire-eater,"  said  the  general,  "as  ever 
shouldered  a  gun.  And  he  refused  promotion  on  three 
occasions." 

"I  can  readily  understand  that,"  said  Gambia.  "His 
modesty  was  only  equaled  by  his  devotion  and  courage. 

"He  visited  me  again  when  the  war  ended,  and  we  re 
newed  the  search.  After  that  came  the  Franco-Prussian 
war,  the  siege  of  Paris  and  the  commune,  destroying  all 
trails.  But  I  sang  on  and  searched  on.  When  I  seemed 
to  have  exhausted  the  theaters  I  tried  the  prisons.  And 
so  the  years  passed  by. 

"In  the  meantime  Mr.  Morgan  had  done  a  generous 
thing;  never  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  me."  She 
paused,  struggling  with  a  sudden  emotion,  and  then: 
"He  had  heard  my  statement — it  was  not  like  writing, 
father,  he  had  heard  it  from  my  lips — and  when  the  posi 
tion  of  my  boys  became  embarrassing  he  gave  them  his 
own  name,  formally  adopting  them  while  he  was  in 
Paris." 

"God  bless  him!"    It  was  the  general's  voice. 

"And  after  that  I  felt  easier.  Every  week,  in  all  the 
long  years  that  have  passed,  brought  me  letters;  every 
detail  in  their  lives  was  known  to  me;  and  of  yours, 
father.  I  knew  all  your  troubles.  Mr.  Morgan  managed 
it.  And,"  she  continued  softly,  "I  felt  your  embarrass 
ments  when  the  war  ended.  Mr.  Morgan  offered  you  a 
loan—" 

"Yes;  but  I  could  not  accept  from  him — " 

"It  was  from  me,  father;  it  was  mine;  and  it  was  my 
money  that  cared  for  my  boys.  Yes,"  she  said,  lifting 
her  head  proudly,  "Mr.  Morgan  understood;  he  let  me 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OF  ALL."  347 

pay  back  everything,  and  when  he  died  it  was  my  money, 
held  in  private  trust  by  him  for  the  purpose,  that  consti 
tuted  the  bulk  of  the  fortune  left  by  him  for  my  boys.  I 
earned  it  before  the  footlights,  but  honestly! 

"Well,  when  poor  Gaspard  died — " 

"He  is  dead,  then?" 

"Ah!  of  course  you  do  not  know.  To-morrow  I  will 
tell  you  his  story.  I  stood  by  his  body  and  at  his  grave, 
and  I  knew  Edward.  I  had  seen  him  many  times.  Poor 
Gerald!  My  eyes  have  never  beheld  him  since  I  took 
him  in  my  arms  that  day,  a  baby,  and  kissed  him  good — 
She  broke  down  and  wept  bitterly.  "Oh,  it  was  pitiful, 
pitiful!" 

After  awhile  she  lifted  her  face. 

"My  husband  had  written  briefly  to  his  family  just 
before  death,  the  letter  to  be  mailed  after;  and  thus 
they  knew  of  it.  But  they  did  not  know  the  name  he 
was  living  under.  His  brother,  to  inherit  the  title  and 
property,  needed  proof  of  death  and  advertised  in  Euro 
pean  papers  for  it.  He  also  advertised  for  the  violin. 
It  was  this  that  suggested  to  me  the  hiding  place  of  the 
missing  papers.  Before  my  marriage  Gaspard  had  once 
shown  me  the  little  slide.  It  had  passed  from  my  mem 
ory.  But  Gambia's  wits  were  sharper  and  the  descrip 
tion  supplied  the  link.  I  went  to  Silesia  and  made  a 
trade  with  the  surviving  brother,  giving  up  my  interest 
in  certain  mines  for  the  name  of  the  person  who  held 
the  violin.  Gaspard  had  described  him  in  his  letter  only 
as  a  young  American  named  Morgan.  The  name  was 
nothing  to  the  brother ;  it  was  everything  to  me.  I  came 
here  determined,  first  to  search  for  the  papers,  and,  fail 
ing  in  that,  to  go  home  to  you,  my  father.  God  has 
guided  me." 

She  sat  silent,  one  hand  in  her  father's,  the  other  clasp 
ed  lovingly  in  her  son's.  It  was  a  silence  none  cared 
to  break.  But  Edward,  from  time  to  time,  as  his  mind 
reviewed  the  past,  lifted  tenderly  to  his  lips  the  hand  of 

Gambia. 

*     *     * 

Steadily  the  ocean  greyhound  plowed  its  way  through 
the  dark  swells  of  the  Atlantic.  A  heavy  bank  of  clouds 


348  SONS  AND  FATHERS. 

covered  the  eastern  sky  almost  to  the  zenith,  its  upper 
edges  paling  in  the  glare  of  the  full  moon  slowly  ascend 
ing  beyond. 

The  night  was  pleasant,  the  decks  crowded.  A  young 
man  and  a  young  woman  sat  by  an  elderly  lady,  hand  in 
hand.  They  had  been  talking  of  a  journey  made  the 
year  previous  upon  the  same  vessel,  when  the  ocean  sang 
for  them  a  new  sweet  song.  They  heard  it  again  this 
night  and  were  lost  in  dreams,  when  the  voice  of  a  well- 
known  novelist,  who  was  telling  a  story  to  a  charmed 
circle  near  by,  broke  in: 

"It  was  my  first  journey  upon  the  ocean.  We  had  been 
greatly  interested  in  the  little  fellow  because  he  was  a 
waif  from  the  great  Parisian  world,  and  although  at  that 
time  tenderly  cared  for  by  the  gentle  woman  who  had 
become  his  benefactress,  somehow  he  seemed  to  carry 
with  him  an  atmosphere  of  loneliness — of  isolation. 
Think  of  it,  a  motherless  babe  afloat  upon  the  ocean.  It 
was  the  pathos  of  life  made  visible.  He  did  not  realize 
it,  but  every  heart  there  beat  in  sympathy  with  his,  and 
when  it  was  whispered  that  the  little  voyager  was  dead  I 
think  every  eye  was  wet  with  tears.  Dead !  Almost  con 
sumed  by  fever.  With  him  had  come  the  picture  of  a 
young  and  beautiful  woman.  He  took  it  with  him  be 
neath  the  little  hands  upon  his  breast.  That  night  he 
was  laid  to  rest.  Never  had  motherless  babe  such  a 
burial.  Gently,  as  though  there  were  danger  of  waking 
him,  we  let  him  sink  into  the  dark  waters,  there  to  be 
rocked  in  the  lap  of  the  ocean  until  God's  day  dawns  and 
the  seas  give  up  their  dead.  That  was  thirty  years  ago ; 
yet  to-night  I  seem  to  see  that  little  shrouded  form  slip 
down  and  down  and  down  into  the  depths.  God  grant 
that  its  mother  was  dead." 

When  he  ceased  the  elder  woman  in  the  little  group 
had  bent  her  head  and  was  silently  weeping. 

"It  sounds  like  a  page  from  the  early  life  of  Gaspard 
Levigne,"  she  said  to  her  companions.  And  then  to  the 
novelist,  in  a  voice  brimming  over  with  tenderness: 
"Grieve  not  for  the  child,  my  friend.  God  has  given 
wings  to  love.  There  is  no  place  in  all  His  universe  that 


"THE  LAST  SCENE  OP  ALL."  349 

can  hide  a  baby  from  its  mother.    Love  will  find  a  way, 
be  the  ocean  as  wide  and  deep  as  eternity  itself." 

And  then,  as  they  sat  wondering,  the  moon  rose  above 
the  clouds.  Light  flashed  upon  the  waves  around  them, 
and  a  golden  path,  stretching  out  ahead,  crossed  the  far 
horizon  into  the  misty  splendors  of  the  sky. 


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